


Mightier Than the Sword

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Chance Meetings, Contract Adventures, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Post Rare Species, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21966400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: A month after the events of "Rare Species," Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies.(TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 825
Kudos: 3994
Collections: witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If Netflix isn't going to start fixing the mess that was Geralt and Dandelion's relationship I'll just have to do it myself. Happy Holidays, all! Have some doofuses trying (and mostly failing) to communicate.

The storm had raged for two days and looked as if it had enough life in it for a third. When Geralt shouldered his way into the inn he felt like there was a kikimore on the other side, so strong was the wind keeping slabs attached to frame. When he finally managed and let the door slam shut behind him, catching his heel and dimming the storm’s voice, he found a number of glares leveled his way, the patrons none too pleased at the cold interruption. Dropping his hood did not improve matters. 

One man splendid in rotting clothes and stained teeth spat as soon as he saw Geralt’s hair. Another flinched away from his eyes. Still another pretended to keep attention on his food but Geralt caught the inquisitive looks he snuck, far worse than any hatred. The curious only thought they were kinder. 

“ _Witcher_ ,” said a fourth. That tone spread through the room. Apparently Jaskier’s ballads hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet. 

Geralt found his seat and kept his back to the wall. 

For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar. 

The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter. 

“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.” 

“This look like a ploughing stable to you?” 

“Does this metal look fake to you?” 

Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash. 

“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split. 

As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand. 

...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past. 

“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.” 

If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it. 

Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword. 

Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. _That_ was a destiny Geralt could believe in. 

He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.

“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said. 

The woman smiled. “I know.” 

Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes. 

The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge. 

“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer. 

Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?” 

“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!” 

But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d _heard it_. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell. 

Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach. 

A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it. 

Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation. 

“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?” 

He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head. 

“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.” 

Another silver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers. 

“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s _my_ friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will _not_ allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.” 

Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn. 

He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless. 

“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?” 

Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?” 

“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.” 

If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vial of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list. 

He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another. 

The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword. 

It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt. 

Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand. 

Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire. 

Until then, Geralt curled in on himself and let the music he already knew wash over him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers! Thank you all so, so much for the staggering number of kudos and comments. It has absolutely made my week. 
> 
> Obviously I decided to add another chapter. I initially intended "Mightier Than the Sword" to just be a oneshot, but a bunch of you asked for more and my plot bunnies obliged. I'll be honest with you all that I don't know how much else (if any) of this I'll write. I'm heading into a staggeringly busy semester, already have numerous writing projects on my plate, and I absolutely have a tendency to get distracted by newer and shinier things. Just so you all know what you're getting into if you decide to keep reading <3 
> 
> Regardless, thanks for sticking around for this much!

The new inn, song, and passing of past friends arrived a mere three months later, on a day that was as bright as the first had been bleak. Alone on the roads, Geralt lifted his face to the sun and let it warm his cheeks. Whatever else life might take from him, he’d always have this—and he did not treat such gifts lightly. 

In truth, the songs had come earlier. Just a few miles east of that night and Geralt started hearing new tunes sung by drunks and children alike. He didn’t like to admit that he recognized the style. It was true enough to claim that music wasn’t a witcher’s craft... but he recognized it nonetheless. There was no easy way to describe the sensation, only familiarity. Geralt watched a woman hanging clothes, singing a song she only had a handful of words to, and knew that it was one of Jaskier’s. 

Something born of his notes. Gallant tales of slicing through wraiths and taking down bandits; surviving armies of neckers and doing right by the people. It was somehow both honest and fabricated, though Geralt supposed that was true of all stories. All he cared about was whether these new ballads meant something. Reconciliation? Forgiveness? Whether he could hope that Jaskier wouldn’t spit at his feet when he next saw him, as so many did? Geralt didn’t know. His memories of the bard’s words to Roach had gone fuzzy. He could no longer believe that he’d heard such kindness over the rain and if it weren’t for the weight of coin in his pockets—keeping him fed and sheltered over these last three months—Geralt would have thought it a dream all together. So no. He had no knowledge of such things... but he found himself hoping nonetheless. 

Clearly destiny was a child. In his experience only children could orchestrate such ironic coincidences. For as he tilted his face to the sun and thought of Jaskier, Geralt suddenly heard his voice. 

From the woods. Screaming. 

He was through the first line of trees in an instant. Before he’d consciously decided to do so, long before any consequences could pop into his head. Geralt dropped Roach’s reins and replaced them with his sword. Through brush. Over boulders. Slipping against mud. With every yard he covered Jaskier’s voice grew clearer until Geralt was finally able to make out his words. 

“Rumors!” he cried, causing Geralt to register brief confusion. Jaskier’s voice held the high-pitched string of panic though and that was all that mattered. “Surely the rumors exaggerate?”—Geralt vaulted a felled tree—“I mean, I’ve spoken with many so-called monsters in my time,”—slashed through particularly dense brush—“and they’re always more civilized than people claim,”—palmed a vial of Blizzard and shot the cork into the trees—“so if you lovely, ah... sirs would just hear me out, perhaps we could come to some sort of understanding? Something? Anything?!”

Geralt finally cleared the woods and saw him: bound to a stump at the beginning of the swamp, attempting to _reason_ with a pack of _drowners_. It was simultaneously the worst and most absurd thing he’d ever seen and for a split second Geralt just stood in shock, useless as a child pre-Trial. It was in that moment that Jaskier’s eyes moved away from the creatures bearing down on him and happened—just happened—to catch sight of him across the way. 

“ _You!_ ” Jaskier said and reality came crashing back down. 

He was too far. The drowners too close. With a growl Geralt bent the middle finger of his left hand and thrust outward, a gale bursting forth from his palm. Normally _Aard_ was enough to blast even the toughest opponents off their feet, but Geralt knew from experience that drowners were a tricky bunch. They tended to tangle with the moss and weeds around them, blurring the line between creature and environment. They wouldn’t topple easy so Geralt aimed for the next best thing. 

His Sign easily tore the ropes binding Jaskier and he soared away from his would-be killers, landing in a deeper part of the swamp. Geralt caught Jaskier’s indignant shriek right before he went under. 

Advancing, a distant part of him hoped the bard knew how to swim. Then Geralt’s mind went blank as muscle memory took over. 

That was the easiest way to deal with semi-sentient monsters. Just let his sword do the work, especially when other, compromising thoughts might distract him. So for three minutes Geralt knew nothing but the weight of steel and the pungent smell of creatures born of the mire. When it was over a collection of body parts floated around him, blood spreading outwards onto the water. Geralt sheathed his sword. 

A few yards away Jaskier stood, dripping. He hacked up muck with a groan. 

Well. If he was going to spit at Geralt, this wasn’t so bad. 

“ _What the fuck?_ ” Jaskier cried. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“I’m—? Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. I am not thanking you for any of this,” and he gestured to his entire self. 

Geralt shrugged. “You’re not welcome then.” 

“Yes. Precisely. Quite right. You keep ruining my clothes, Geralt, and I—” Jaskier’s mouth suddenly unhinged, a little more water dribbling out. He absently wiped it away. “I’m mad at you. That’s right, I’m _furious_ , I—hold on. Where are you going?” 

It had taken all his concentration to keep from smiling. Because yes, Jaskier was furious, but if he could complain about his outfit than he wasn’t furious enough. Enough to hate him, that is. Not yet. 

Suddenly, that confirmation was worth wet boots and the lingering smell of decay. 

Geralt turned and started heading back towards Roach. The small bit of warmth in his chest grew at the sound of frantic splashing behind him. 

“Geralt? Geralt wait! I haven’t a horse!” 

***

A few hours later found them seated around a fire roasting meat. Specifically, the meat of a wolf Geralt had killed after cleaning his sword of drowner residue. Jaskier stared at the white pelt laid out to dry, then pointed to the hunk Geralt was tearing his teeth into. 

“Is that cannibalism?” he asked. Geralt grunted. 

It would be cliche to claim that they were the first words he’d spoken. In fact, Jaskier had done nothing but talk during their walk back to the road and during all the chores since. It was nonsense though. Silly, rambling thoughts that danced around the conversation they were meant to have. Problem was, Geralt didn’t know how to start it and based on the insistent tapping of Jaskier’s foot, he didn’t know either. 

So, more dancing then. 

“Another wife?” Geralt asked. Across from him Jaskier was dressed only in his smalls and a blanket, his clothes drying next to the pelt. He looked vulnerable in the dying light. More akin to a child than a man. Geralt suddenly found it hard to reconcile this Jaskier with his cuckolder reputation. Though that grimace told him he needn’t have strained himself. 

Jaskier snatched his own portion of the food and raised it for emphasis. “If only. Those drunk cads aren’t nearly creative enough to pull something like this off. You met that one in Cintra. They just want me to drop my pants and,” the spit came down in a chopping motion. “It’s all that and punching, yelling, you know how it is. Tying someone up and leaving them for...what did you call them again?” 

“Drowners.” 

“Because they...?” 

“Drown people.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes with such violence Geralt feared they’d leave his skull. “What a pedestrian name. Honestly, could no one come up with better?” 

“Some believe they’re called that because they’re born of men who drowned at sea.” 

“Oh! Is that true?” 

Geralt ate more wolf. After a long moment of silence Jaskier scowled. 

“Fine. Be stoic and boring. I don’t need to know the truth for a good song.” He raised a hand only to realize that the notebook he carried was with his clothes, completely waterlogged. Jaskier finally took a vicious bite of his dinner. “Hmm. Right. Songs. That’s what did it.” 

Geralt blinked. “You were nearly murdered over a _ballad_?” 

“Not all of them are about you,” he shot back. “Apparently bigots are everywhere nowadays. Sing a few ditties painting halflings in a nice light and suddenly you’re getting knocked over the head and dragged out to the swamp. The barbarity! Thought they were poetic about it too. ‘Support monsters and you can be with monsters,’ or some such nonsense. I was still a bit groggy at that point, but... by all the gods what are you doing now?” 

The same instinct that had Geralt charging into the woods made him put his food down now, standing and circling around Jaskier to get a look at his head. “You didn’t tell me you were injured,” he growled. 

“You didn’t tell me you cared!” and Jaskier slapped Geralt’s hand away, glaring. 

He could have said he did. Two simple words. An ‘I do’ and they could move on from this, but Geralt’s jaw felt locked shut and all he seemed capable of was glaring back. 

Then Jaskier sighed. “Oh go on,” he said. “I’d hate to lose any of my brilliance to the back of a beer bottle. Consider this recompense. You owe me.” 

Geralt slipped fingers into Jaskier’s hair and lightly searched. There was only a small lump, hardly worrying, and something in him loosened. “I just saved your life.” 

“Ha! We’ll call that payment for your filling-less pie comment. Your little temper tantrum, however...” 

His hands slipped away. “The notes.” It was all Geralt could manage, but Jaskier turned, his expression softening. 

“Well yes,” he said. “But I _had_ already given you coin.” 

“Thought that was a gift.” 

“And I thought you were trying to be less of an ass.” 

Fair enough. Geralt returned to his side of the fire and his quickly cooling meat. It tasted sour on his tongue. Ridiculous considering that witchers cared little for taste. 

Oddly though, his mouthful improved when Jaskier caught his eye. He tapped one finger against his lips, highlighting the smile there. 

“Although... hypothetically speaking, if you did want to make things up to me—not that big bad witchers apologize or anything—but if they _did_ you could always go get my lute.” 

It was a shock the ran straight down to the soles of Geralt’s feet. How distracted had he been not to notice that missing bit of Jaskier? It was a worrisome realization. A hint that Geralt had been right the first time around: better to separate now. 

Except that after the fire had burned low and Jaskier slept on Geralt’s mat, he snuck off in the direction of the nearest village. It wasn’t a long walk, the would-be murderers not willing to drag their victim far, but it was long enough for Geralt to come to still another realization, much to his chagrin. 

The first time he’d saved someone she’d screamed, vomited, and passed out at the mere sight of him. Now Jaskier shrieked in rage, spat out muck, and passed out in his bed, not quite joking about the nightmares. Technically the same and yet so obviously different. What were the chances that he would be walking that road, at that time, precisely when Jaskier needed him? 

If destiny existed, she seemed to be a mischievous little thing. 

When he reached the village there was still late night life in it, though Geralt didn’t know who he sought and he wasn’t about to punish all for the sins of a few. Still, if he bared his teeth more than usual and refused to hide his eyes that was nothing of any consequence. Geralt found the precious lute behind the bar and a roomful of guilty looks. He had what he’d come for. 

Despite that, before he left Geralt stole a new outfit. Sturdy shoes, warm pants, and a shirt of robin egg blue. A new notebook as well. He carried those apologies through the dead of night, his steps sure. 

And if along the way Geralt strummed the lute a bit, committing those notes to memory... well, there were old sayings about trees and silence. If no one was around to hear him do it, who was to say it ever happened at all. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there's a chapter three now! Istg someday when I say I'm writing a oneshot I will actually succeed in doing that. 
> 
> Officially upping this to the "slow-ish burn" category. Rating will stay the same as I guarantee that none of you want to watch me attempt smut. For the record I do have an ending in mind, it's just a matter of seeing precisely how we get there :)

Traveling with Jaskier was as exhausting as Geralt remembered.

Only a fool would assume that was a bad thing.

Indeed, exhaustion had many forms and not all were made equal. Witchers understood that better than most. The ache from training was not the same as pain from a battle. The morning after drink could not compare to the morning after a cry—or so he’d been told. Geralt was indeed exhausted with Jaskier at his side... but he’d also been exhausted with him gone. The latter was an itchy feeling that never went away, felled not by sleep, drink, or even the occasional woman. It loosened its hold on him only when Geralt spent long afternoons talking to Roach, which was how he had been able to label it as something akin to loneliness. Not the true thing though, surely. Witchers didn’t feel the same as humans did, most felt nothing at all, so it only served to reckon they wouldn’t get lonely quite like they did either. Vesemir had given long lessons on the enhancements Geralt’s additional mutations had granted him, though little on the consequences. None of it had been hard to figure out on his own though. Not once he set out on the Path. Unlike his brethren, Geralt had... needs. Or desires rather, for he’d had little difficulty in suppressing them over the years. He found himself craving the gentle ministrations of the priestesses over the brusque treatments of rural healers, when they designed to treat a mutant at all. The conversations held with streetwalkers were at times more enjoyable than the sexual release they built to and when it was through, watching them all but sprint to the baths to be rid of him, Geralt could admit to a foreign ache in his stomach. Something he couldn’t fill with food. Admit, but not speak of. He’d once shared meat with a witcher from the School of the Viper. In turn the man had shared his crudely made alcohol. Potent stuff and within an hour Geralt’s tongue had loosened far more than he was used to, speaking of those strange moments and hoping that his companion would open his mouth across the fire, admitting to the same. Or at least to something similar.

Instead he’d accepted Geralt’s ramblings in silence, then packed his things in that same quiet, deepening it. He’d left without a word, choosing the forest over his company. He learned his lesson well and over the years Geralt had grown more adept at shoving such desires deep down where they could cause him no more strife. After all, he might also desire hot food and a feather bed to sleep in. That didn’t mean he had any hope of receiving them. It was an exhaustion he’d grown used to.

Nowadays though... Geralt’s head grew heavy because it was being stuffed with information he’d never need: the exact circumference of Lady Kathryn’s waist, what strings worked best for an Elven lute, why you must never soak a dark colored shirt with its lighter siblings, the best spots in Novigrad to buy cinnamon pastries (though Geralt admitted he might well use that last bit). Jaskier talked incessantly, until Geralt’s ears ached and his throat grew scratchy from the uncommon number of responses he was expected to give. Being forced to interact with someone from dawn to dusk ate at him in unexpected ways, so that Geralt tumbled onto his mat each night weary from something other than travel. Though it did occur to him that he might be helping create that monster. Surely Jaskier’s conversation was tied at least somewhat to the encouragement he received, yet Geralt couldn’t bring himself to dissuade him. He’d spoken harshly once and had regretted it for weeks after.

More proof of his abnormality. Witchers weren’t meant to feel regret either. Too emotional for his brothers; too unfeeling for the rest of the world. It left him somewhere in between, freakish to all who bothered to spare him a glance.

Yet here Jaskier sat. Talking.

“I really must buy a proper case for all this,” he said, carefully weighing down his papers with nearby stones. Jaskier had a tendency to rip them from his notebook while working, chucking them into the fire before realizing there was still merit and attempting to retrieve them with a squawk. Geralt had kept the fool from burning himself on more than one occasion. “Something enchanted, I think. Although...” Jaskier’s mouth twisted, the same lemon-puckered look he adopted whenever Yennefer came up. Today, Geralt found the look more amusing than offensive. “I hate to sully my work with that stuff, but it’s probably worth it in the end. Something waterproof, of course. Resistant to fire too. Oh! Maybe one of those retrieval options. You know, the fancy spells that draw the object back to your hand. And—”

“Expensive,” Geralt finished. “Even for you, Bard.”

“That’s _poet_ ,” Jaskier sniffed. “I’m hardly just a bard, Geralt. Sure, I might be forced to put my art to catchy tunes in order to keep our bellies filled—”

“Ours?”

“—but poetry is my true calling and one day you shall hear it recited from Oxenfurt Academy to the poorest villages of Velen! Provided that my writing survives our journey, of course. I just need to...” Jaskier tore a few more pages apart so that each held but a single stanza, secured them with more stones, then re-arranged the whole design, quick as a Gwent master. “What do you think? Should the description of the swamps come before the battle, or as a way of breaking it up?”

Before Jaskier conversation had been rare, but easy. Geralt knew precisely what was wanted of him and could map out the talk down to the last words he’d receive: “Fine.” “Freak.” “Quickly.” “You’d better.” The common folk wanted him to be a sword against the rest of the world. The rare woman wanted him as an easy fuck with no chance of pregnancy. Conversation led only to these two outcomes and when he’d completed either he was sent on his way. Jaskier though...

That first morning together he’d donned the clothes Geralt had stolen and done a little twirl, asking how he looked. “What’s it matter?” he’d replied, thinking of the stains and tears that would inevitably develop; whether the wool would be warm enough for a human out in this cold. Jaskier had pouted though and given him five words that had reverberated in his head for the last few days.

“I just want your opinion.”

No one had wanted Geralt’s opinion before. Not unless it was in the service of their survival. Now there was clothing and poetry and the occasional pretty thing. Geralt opened his mouth, unsure if he could force anything to come out of it. Beside him on the log Jaskier was quiet. That, more than anything else, shocked a response out of him.

“Before,” he said. Jaskier blinked.

“Why?” Genuine tone. Honest expression. Jaskier got nervous when he lied and Geralt would have heard the kick in his heartbeat.

“You don’t break up a fight. It happens. It ends.” 

“Huh. I believe you’re right. Best not to interrupt the action,” and just like that the moment was broken. Jaskier surged forward, spreading his legs to scribble on the papers between them, then leaning to reach those positioned near Geralt’s boot. His writing was nigh illegible and Geralt suddenly felt compelled to mention as much.

“My handwriting? You’re one to talk given your spelling.”

“My spelling?”

Jaskier dipped into the bag where his lute lay, retrieving a few pages with unnerving accuracy. Geralt immediately recognized them as his own notes. Jaskier flapped them in his face causing him to draw back with a growl. “No one spells ‘pathetic’ as ‘pathetick’ anymore. Or ‘connection’ with an ‘x.’ Your spelling is at least a century out of date, my friend. Who taught you? A vampire?” and Jaskier laughed at his own, highly suspect joke.

“No. But I learned to spell a century past.”

“ _You_ —?”

Jaskeir’s head whipped around. He stared at Geralt. Geralt stared at him. Jaskier’s eyes were as wide as a newborn foal’s.

“Right,” he finally said. “That’s... yeah. That’s a thing. Okay then, grandfather.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He only got a noncommittal noise in response, the same one he heard whenever Geralt demanded that Jaskier not compose another song about him. He was already lost in his own words again and Geralt let him go, distracted himself. Because that had been different too. Most recoiled from his age as quickly as they did his eyes or his scars. Yet here Jaskier sat, shrugging off his age as easily as he would... well. Geralt didn’t know what to compare it to. He’d never had a need. The fool currently smearing ink on his chin was a mess of contradictions that Geralt feared he’d never untangle. As brilliant as he was dense. Brave as he was cowardly. He ran from monsters only to then willingly walk beside another and unlike those who judged him on looks and rumor alone, Jaskier had true reason to fear him. Geralt had treated him monstrously and gotten only kindness in return.

It all made his head ache. Vesemir had warned Geralt that the Path would be confusing. Humans, elves, dwarves, and halflings—they all led such complicated lives; governed by meandering social rules that witchers could never hope to master. It often made him long for the simplicity of Kaer Morhen. Even so, Geralt didn’t think that anything would have prepared Vesemir for Jaskier.

The sudden image of the two meeting burned bright in his mind, causing a suspicious twitch in Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier, meanwhile, impatiently tapped quill against paper.

“ _Fog sweeping_

_Hearts still_

_When rose the drowned_

_For troubadour bound_

_and came to claim his—_ ”

Geralt, what part of a human do drowners eat?”

He nudged one of the stones further onto its paper, keeping it from flying with the breeze. “Everything.”

“Well that’s not useful.”

“And there was no fog. Or is your memory that fickle?”

“Excuse me, but I’m not the one forgetting lessons here. What have I taught you about truth and fame? They rarely go hand-in-hand.” Jaskier suddenly grinned. “A bit like coin and monsters that way.”

For some reason that smile and those words sparked a memory, an actual flitting thing that danced at the edge of his mind. Ah, of course. Triss. She had demanded to know whether there was more in Geralt’s life than beasts and payment for their slaughter. Now, looking at Jaskier, he wasn’t sure what answer he would give her.

“Far too many words that rhyme with ‘still,’” Jaskier said, oblivious to Geralt’s thoughts. Whether it was arrogance or brilliance that drove his focus, who could say. “That’s the real problem here. Too many options. You wouldn’t think it, but it’s the truth. You’re like that too with your, ah...” Oddly, color rose high into Jaskier’s cheeks as he looked back at his companion, hand making a sweeping gesture from Geralt’s head to his toes. “... everything. Your everything, Geralt. I mean, what am I supposed to describe first? Soft hair? Golden eyes? Armor bearing the marks of your survival? Though perhaps not as that’s in need of a wash.” Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “You stand out. Everything practically begs to be put to paper, but there’s only so much flattery an audience will sit through. One must pick their details wisely. Hmm. Actually, I may well opt for your hands, dear witcher. They are after all the real tools that saved me that day.”

Six hours from now Geralt would be ankle deep in a stream, trailing behind Jaskier in an effort to keep anything from sneaking up behind them, but in truth he’d once again be distracted. Uneasy about his own abilities and cursing that state. Because if a mere human could spring on him so, what would stop a creature of more cunning and skill?

Geralt should have caught the movement. Jaskier sat right beside him and yet somehow he managed to snag Geralt’s hand without him realizing, fingers cupping palm. He registered how cool the human’s skin was compared to a witcher’s blood, the calluses so similar to his own, yet residing in all the wrong places. Geralt felt a thumb tracing his lifeline, heard Jaskier’s voice as if from deep under water...

...and then instinct had him pulling away with a snarl. Geralt stumbled off the log and resisted the urge to drag his hand up against his chest. Impossibly, it felt bruised. Raw and burning in equal measure.

Jaskier froze.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice pitched low and soothing. Like he was attempting to coax a temperamental mare. Indeed, Roach flicked her ears at the noise and turned, bumping her head briefly against Geralt’s shoulder. It was only then that he realized he was still snarling, lips pulled back to reveal teeth too large and sharp for a human mouth. Jaskier had gone a shade paler than was his norm.

“No touching,” he said. “Message received. Except,” Jaskier hesitated. Geralt watched his throat bob once, then twice. “Didn’t seem that way a few days ago. You—” he briefly raised a hand, that same hand, up into his hair where he tugged at the strands. “Gods, Geralt. You can thread your hands through my hair but I can’t so much as brush you without getting... this?”

Finally, his lips receded. Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and his pupils went back to their normal size, no longer dilated for defense. “That was different.”

“ _How?_ ”

“Because...”

Because it just was. It was like exhaustion. Nothing was made equal. Geralt checking Jaskier for a head wound was not the same as Jaskier touching his hand. Dragging him to Yennefer’s doorstep was not the same as the press of shoulders Jaskier had attempted over the fire last night, or the squeeze of an arm during breakfast, both of which Geralt had managed to dodge. He didn’t know why he’d failed this time and that vulnerability strangled anything else he might have said. It all died in his throat and eventually, when the silence grew, Jaskier looked away.

“Knew I shouldn’t have made that joke about chamomile and bottoms,” he muttered, rubbing at his face. “Right! Well, you needn’t worry in the future. I value my neck too much to risk it wrung over a closer look at your hands. Besides, terrible cuticles. Chipped nails and dirt beneath them. I doubt my audience wants to hear any of that.”

It hurt. Somehow it hurt to move from Jaskier’s praise to these insults, however unconvincing they may be. For Jaskier’s heart was beating like a rabbit’s and he was still avoiding Geralt’s eye. The worst was that, with a few minutes and deep breaths behind him, Geralt found that his hand no longer burned. Rather, there was a satisfying warmth that crawled up his wrist and his fingers twitched, eager to reach back. To take what he’d just rejected.

“Jaskier...”

“No, no. No need to explain. I get it, really. I’m the impulsive one. Rude too, though it’s unintentional I assure you. ‘Little fool’ my mother used to call me.”

“Jaskier.”

“I apologize, Geralt. Seriously. I shouldn’t have—”

“Jaskier would you _shut up for once?_ ”

He did, but only because by now the sounds were near enough for a human to hear. Jaskier stilled, eyes widening as two voices approached from the west. Men, with the roughened tongues of hunters. Harmless perhaps. But Geralt had never put his trust in odds, even good ones. 

“Should we...?” Jaskier whispered, motioning to run. He already had a tight grip on Roach’s reins.

Geralt considered, then looked to the spread of papers still on the ground. It would take longer than the few seconds they had to gather it all up.

“No,” he said. Warmed fingers grasped the hilt of his sword. “Just keep behind me.” 

Jaskier did. Close, but not so close as to touch. Geralt shoved aside the meaning of that as two shadows moved out from behind the trees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mood while writing this chapter is realizing that you have a master poet as a main character but you, the author, can't write poetry (┛ಠ_ಠ)┛彡┻━┻


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers! I'm attempting a weekly-ish posting schedule and so far I've actually managed to keep to it. Will wonders never cease...

“See?” Jaskier said. “This is why I must... revise our adventures, so to speak. No one would ever believe me if I told them the truth.”

He was gesturing to the two men kneeling in a patch of wet leaves, both heads bent to expose their necks, a common act of submission in these parts of Temeria. The elder of the two snuck out a hand to wrap around the wrist of his companion.

“Please don’t hurt us, Master Witcher,” he said, no longer boasting the confident tone of a man who thought himself king of the wood. “Me and my son were just lookin’ for some supper. That’s it. I swear it to you. We didn’t mean to interrupt you an’ your... ah...”

Jaskier leaned close, his shirt just a hair’s breadth from Geralt’s armor. “Ohhh yes, please finish that sentence. What do you think I am? I’m not his ‘friend’ as I fear we’ve already butted heads like rams over that one. Not his ‘bard’ either as I’m far more than just some tawdry performer. Your ‘companion,’ perhaps? Eh, makes me sound like some sort of escort.”

With a sigh Geralt sheathed his sword, watching the men visibly relax. Rather funny that they thought this made him less dangerous. “He’s my curse.”

“Oh! _Curse?_ Thanks. Thanks ever so much for that. I’ll just toss ‘He’s my curse’ next to ‘Filling-less pie.’ In fact, I should start a list. The many insults of Geralt of Rivia. Provide enough of them and I might just get a song out of it. Go on then. Anything else to add? My quill awaits.”

Geralt didn’t consider himself particularly skilled at reading people. Not unless he sought the signs of murder and betrayal. Yet in that moment he would have bet Roach that Jaskier was... teasing him. Just something about the hands on his hips and the hint of a smile. He knew now that Jaskier went quiet when he was hurt, as Geralt had witnessed just moments before. This performance didn’t compare to the tiny ‘How?’ he’d spoken, head dipped down towards his knees.

So Geralt attempted... something. Another apology maybe.

“I’m done for now,” he said, trying for the tone that he sometimes heard long-suffering wives using to discuss their husbands. Some of it must have gotten through because Jaskier rolled his eyes heavenward, ‘for now’ muttered on the tip of his tongue.

Meanwhile, the man had gathered courage enough to lift his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You... won’t be attackin’ me an’ my boy?”

No, of course they wouldn’t. Over the remains of yesterday’s breakfast Jaskier, never one to give up an opportunity for storytelling, explained that they’d initially feared _them_. His dear witcher only drew his sword as a precaution, not a warning, and there had never been a reason to kneel like that, so sorry about your trousers. Funny though it was. Now then, what brings you two this far out for a bit of dinner?

“Game’s scarce nowadays,” Yoven said, tearing into the meat of a small bird. He’d likewise introduced his son, Lin, a quiet boy more interested in his boots than the conversation. He ate his own fill when it was handed to him though and kept one shoulder pressed to his father’s at all times. “Need to keep headin’ deeper. Every fortnight it seems. Don’t know what we’re gonna do when the snows hit.”

Geralt felt the same. He’d wanted something substantial for the two of them, especially with winter on the horizon, but he’d had to settle for those warblers and the occasional grub. Jaskier had expressed his displeasure—quite vocally—at Geralt eating whatever he came across in the soil, but what was taste to a witcher? It was an easy source of protein they couldn’t afford to pass up, not now that the nights were growing longer and the air crisper with each passing breath. Soon all but the monsters would be in hibernation and Geralt didn’t think Jaskier could stomach a Nekker heart if he wasn’t willing to eat a measly worm.

It was a problem he hadn’t thought about when Jaskier had first joined him, not when the weather was kind and the chance of him staying past the next town nothing but a well-hidden fantasy. Now, with Fall nearing its end and this unspoken agreement between them, questions of a practical nature had begun to surface. How would he feed them? Would Jaskier survive the cold? Geralt tried to remember everything he’d learned about human physiology and how it compared to a witcher’s. How long could Jaskier go without fresh water? Surely not the two weeks Geralt could manage. Some night when food was once again scarce and he was weary from battle, would he remember that risom berries were fatal to everyone else, or would Geralt mistakenly offer him a handful of poison? How long could a human travel before exhaustion took hold? If he were injured what salves were safe to use? Would Jaskier even tell him these things, or would he insist it was all fine up until he collapsed? It hadn’t been terribly long since that day at the swamp, but with each passing moment Geralt grew more and more consumed by the same realization: humans were not meant to walk the Path.

Yet here Jaskier sat, creating a mirror to Lin and Yoven. The only difference was the absence of touch and Geralt suddenly had the strong urge to press their shoulders together, completing the picture.

If he were humble, Geralt would lead them to the next prosperous settlement and ask Jaskier to sing. Drum up some of the coin he could clearly earn and share it with him, securing their survival.

If he was smart he’d lead them both to Kaer Morhen for the winter, where food and protection were plenty and he needn’t fear a sudden shift in their host’s hospitality. However, the thought of bringing Jaskier to a witcher’s fortress...

If he were both, Geralt would simply leave the bard behind.

All these thoughts passed through him in a moment, following the tail of Jaskier’s expression as he watched Yoven devour cold, congealing meat. A mere second to assess the situation as he would a battle. Then the conversation continued.

Yoven explained that they were from another small town just three miles from here, one of Temeria’s many. Indistinguishable unless you considered that they specialized in building and exporting wagons as opposed to fish, herbs, nets, weapons, boots--whatever else one might need to continue with a war. Or life. It amounted to much the same. Does your town have a name? Jaskier asked. Not unless you count the profanity with which most referred to it. Are you and your witcher heading somewhere in particular? Not really. Wherever we’re needed, and Jaskier ended his comment with a little laugh. As if the concept of anyone needing him was a joke in and of itself.

Geralt, meanwhile, was watching the boy.

“You’ve something to say,” he announced, startling all three. Indeed, it was an easy enough conclusion, even without Lin’s guilty look. Geralt may not have had Jaskier’s talent for small talk, but he could always tell when someone held something back. His livelihood depended on it.

“Well? You can speak freely. We don’t bite,” and Geralt bared his teeth, ignoring the glare Jaskier shot at him.

“We really don’t,” he insisted.

It was Yoven who opened his mouth though. He must have been at least fifty years old, judging by the white in his beard. A substantial age for a human and, like the confident tone they’d first heard at his approach, Yoven was clearly used to commanding respect among his peers. He was halfway through insisting that no, his boy just had that air about him, when Lin finally looked up from his boots with,

“They can help.”

Three words in a mouse’s voice, but ones Geralt knew well. He leaned forward. Help meant trouble. Trouble meant coin. And coin meant he could give Jaskier something other than the soft bones of a bird to eat.

Yoven scowled. “There’s nothin’ to help with.”

“There is! Talden said—”

“Talden? ‘Don’t know how that mug got broke’ Talden? ‘I swear them chickens just ran off’ Talden? _That_ Talden? You’d believe your own arse grew outta your nose if Talden told you so.”

“Lovely image,” Jaskier murmured.

Hmm. Perhaps a fool’s errand then. Or a case of a child crying werewolf. It wouldn’t be the first time some mischievous youngster had been scoffed at when they reported a sighting, only for folk to find them torn to pieces the next morn’, their lying punished too harshly. Only sure way to know was to get details, so Geralt eased himself off the log and knelt before Lin. No more attempts to frighten. Rather, he pulled in his shoulders to appear smaller than he was, kept his hands where Lin could see them, and allowed white hair to partially curtain his face, hiding a bit of the sallow skin and inhuman eyes. It wasn’t much, but Geralt had learned over the decades that even the smallest bit might help. Lives had been lost and saved on far less.

It was one of the reasons why he didn’t believe in destiny. Or, if she were real, why she must also be cruel. Only someone with ice in their heart would wager so much on whether another thought him decent to look upon. 

Or simply thought of him at all.

“Talden,” Geralt said, trying to smooth out the rough edge in his voice. He didn’t succeed. “This a friend of yours?”

Lin nodded.

“He saw something? Something that scared him?”

“Heard it,” Lin said, snaking out a hand to grab hold of his father’s shirt. The older man allowed it with a sigh, gesturing for him to go on. It was only then that Geralt realized the child was far younger than he’d first assumed. Almost too young to be out in these woods. Especially if something stalked them.

Lin took a swallow of the water Jaskier offered before going on. “He heard somethin', Master Witcher. Just a few nights back. See, Laren’s our neighbor. Talden’s neighbor too. We all live close, so we all heard when she came screamin’ in the morn about her sister. She was gone. Vanished during the night. Old Roger said she’d run off with a boy from the town over, but Laren says there was no boy. No runnin’ off then either. And Talden told me he heard things a few hours before dawn. Monster things,” and he went back to chugging the water, whispering that last bit.

Geralt tilted his head. “Did Talden say what kind of ‘monster things’? What sounds precisely?”

“No, Master Witcher sir. I didn’t wanna know. Plugged my ears and kicked his shin for scarin’ me.”

Jaskier snorted. "A well landed blow.”

“It’s as I said.” Yoven picked up the thread. “I didn’ want my boy botherin’ you with this because there’s no ‘this’ to be bothered with. Laren and Sage moved here not a year ago. Real secretive girls. Kept to themselves and expected the rest of us to do the same. Old Roger—one of the elders, y’see. I’m set to take his place in a few years—tried to welcome them, but found both to be a prickly pair. Always goin’ off on their own. Not sayin’ where they went or when they’d return. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sage did have a little tryst going, sneakin’ away if her sis didn’t approve. They’re both young enough for such foolishness. But then comes Talden makin’ wild claims about hearin’ monsters during the night, only after the lass was revealed to be missing, mind. He was after attention, Master Witcher. Nothin’ more.”

But Lin shook his head. “Talden wouldn’t lie.” He withered under his father’s look. “He wouldn’t lie about _that_. He knows how monsters scare me. I, um... apologized after. For kickin’ him.”

Geralt stood. “And Talden didn’t change his story after your apology?”

“Nuh uh.”

“Anyone look for the woman? Tracks? Speak to the folk in the town over? Surely they’d notice if one of their young men had gone missing around the same time.”

Yoven sucked the last of the marrow from his bird and shrugged. “We’re carpenters, not trackers. If we were I might have better luck findin’ meat for us both. As for the town,” Yoven stuck out a finger and proceeded to swing it in an arc. “Which one? We’ve got any number of small towns in these parts, some more earning of the name than others. But it would take days to travel and talk to ‘em all. No one does that for a woman not wantin’ to be found.”

Geralt cursed.

All of little help then. Which was he to believe, the logic of flighty women and trickster boys, or the witcher's experience that told him sometimes folk really did disappear from their beds? For any other witcher the answer was easy. One look at Yoven's clothes and Lin’s greedy bites told the story of poverty. Even if Geralt returned victorious with a beast’s head in his hands, the chances of receiving any substantial reward were slim. Perhaps enough for one meal, maybe two, but was that worth the trouble it would take to receive them?

Of course, there were benefits to being an abnormal witcher. He needn’t decide things on his own, for one.

“Well?” Geralt said. Jaskier blinked stupidly up at him.

“Huh?”

“Should we look into it?”

“...You’re asking _me_?”

Yes. He was. Geralt felt the burn on his hand and the bruises in his chest. Day-old words flit across his mind like birds. “I just want your opinion.”

The smile was instantaneous. Blinding too. Jaskier went so far as to slap his knee, bursting into joyous laughter when Geralt rolled his eyes. He had his fun for a moment, then grew somber. A single nod and Geralt was already moving to collect his things.

“Yes. We should at least look into it. I’d never forgive myself if we left some poor maiden in peril. Plus, think of what a story it will make! A tale of intrigue and mystery, clandestine meetings and sibling love. That’s grown quite popular, you know.”

“Then pack up your things, Bard. It will be night soon.”

“Poet, Geralt. _Poet_.” But Jaskier dutifully bent to collect his papers, pressing each carefully between the pages of his notebook or rolling them up with string. Geralt made sure that none had escaped his notice, then took up Roach’s reins. She stamped a few times, impatient to be off.

Yoven was staring, mouth agape so that the rot on his back teeth showed. “You’re coming?”

“We’re coming,” Geralt confirmed and started off, now three sets of footsteps following behind him.

He only listened for the one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing exciting to chuck into the author's notes today except YOU ALL ROCK <3

The walk back to Yoven’s people was a substantial one. He had not exaggerated when he said that they were forced to start earlier each day and go farther with each excursion, for the forests in these parts were already sporting the beginnings of a frost, seen in the hazy expulsion of their breaths and the crunch of dead leaves. As the sun began to set Jaskier jogged up to Roach, giving her a firm pat before filching the blanket Geralt kept by her saddle. He wrapped it around his shoulders and let the extra drape down over Lin. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide, and something clenched in the center of Geralt’s chest.

He picked up the pace.

“There we are,” Yoven said, pointing to the thin curls of smoke visible in the distance. Within minutes they broke the treeline onto a sight Geralt had seen a thousand times before. Small and decrepit homes packed close together, separated by fences that existed for tradition’s sake, not practicality’s. Short roads extended outwards like tree limbs, worn into the earth thanks to generations of footfalls. It always struck Geralt, this visual difference between villages and a city like Novigrad. One planned and plotted its way to success. The other simply let it fall naturally and hoped for survival.

Still, meager as it was the torches were a welcome sight. Yoven led them to what was clearly the town’s center. Not an inn by any stretch of the imagination, but a building larger than their houses and therefore a good spot to keep company. Geralt paused before crossing the threshold.

“My horse,” he said.

“You can tie her up over there.” Yoven pointed to a rusted water pump, leaning precariously to one side. “Well went dry years back. She’ll be fine, long as she’s not easily spooked.”

“Roach? Spooked?” Jaskier drew back in offense. “I’ll have you know that horse once charged a wraith head on and then had the nerve to nip at _me_ for taking shelter behind a rock. We’re not all a thousand pounds of muscle, thank you,” and he slapped the blanket back onto her saddle.

Geralt could have explained, of course. That he used Axii on Roach before every fight to keep her from bucking or bolting. That the ‘charge’ had merely been his slap to get her out of the way, not knowing that a second wraith would appear directly in her path. Or that Roach nipped at everyone when she got tired and testy... such as Lin, just then trying to save the edge of his cloak from her teeth. Jaskier, however, was still speaking with Yoven, oblivious.

Geralt shook his head and led her away.

“I’ll find you something to eat,” he promised, smoothing a hand down her neck. Roach tossed her head twice more before settling, obeying his silent urging to grow still. There, with the other three squirreled away and the cover of darkness to aid him, Geralt pressed his forehead against hers, eyes closed. They’d done this many times before, Roach infinitely patient with him in his... weakness? Perversion? Geralt wasn’t sure what to call the desire that led him to seek out brothels for just a hand on his arm, or to remember the weight of another as he tore them from danger, limbs tangled and little slivers of skin pressed to skin. It was a human thing, he knew that much, and harder to ignore thanks to Jaskier’s little stunt. So for just a moment Geralt pressed himself close to Roach, breathing in the scent of sweat and hay, memorizing the sensation of her hair against his cheek.

Then he pulled back. His expression, if anyone had seen it, told the story of never needing that at all.

By the time Geralt joined the others there was a roaring fire and mugs of watered-down ale, but ale nonetheless. Jaskier sat beside Lin and Lin beside his father. Across from them was a man who made Yoven look young, sagging skin and eyes the color of a fog. They picked up Geralt well enough though and didn’t leave him despite Jaskier’s attempts to gain his attention.

“Only thing I bothered to take with me,” he was saying, turning his right hand in the fire’s light. A ring sparkled on his middle finger, one that Geralt had taken note of years back but hadn’t given much thought to since. “Parents never took much to the whole poet thing. I was expected to... well. Be something more, let’s just put it like that. Father gave me this at the start of my sixteenth summer. Suppose he thought it might inspire me to follow in his footsteps, or some rot. Carry on the family tradition! I just think it makes me that much prettier.” Jaskier twiddled his fingers, drawing a short laugh out of Lin. “It’s real garnet, you know. 5.72 grams.”

“Jaskier. No one wants to hear about your baubles.”

“Oh, the responses I could give to _that_.” Luckily he didn’t, merely dragged fingers from his lips like a drawstring closing. The newcomer moved his chair closer to the fire and at the same time coincidentally added distance between himself and Jaskier.

It also moved him just a few inches closer to Geralt and with the wind blowing through cracks in the old wood it would have been hard to miss that scent. His nostrils flared, the movement indistinguishable from that of a hound's, but far more adept.

“You keep odd company, Witcher,” the man said.

Geralt inclined his head, taking the seat that was offered. He drank the whole of his mug in one breath and wiped his mouth along the leather crease between the plates of his armor. Another breath, a silent belch, and only then did he speak.

“Old Roger?”

“Indeed.”

“You always keep such late nights? Sitting alone in the commons?”

If the elder took issue with the sudden interrogation he didn’t show it. Merely took a sip from his own mug and tapped one blackened nail against the side. “I do, sir. On days when one of our own goes huntin’ anyway. Was once a time when they’d be back by dusk and I’d have an early night ahead of me. No longer.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Silence reigned. Beneath the table Geralt felt something soft press against his boot. When he looked Jaskier had slipped a little lower in his seat than necessary, casting none-too-subtle looks towards Roger. What this performance meant, however, Geralt couldn’t even begin to guess.

He settled for ignoring it.

“I’ve got a bit of the owl in me,” Roger continued. “I don’t mind waitin’ up for one of our own. Must admit though, I’d hoped Yoven would return with a deer this time. Perhaps some rabbits in a pinch. Not...” His eyes strayed to Jaskier, now lounging with one knee propped up against the table’s edge. “Forgive me, but not more mouths to feed.”

“They can have some of mine,” Lin pipped up. Yoven quickly shushed him. Jaskier flashed a smile.

The common story then, but not the one that Roger himself seemed to support. Sure, he wasn’t plump like some of the army generals of these parts, but his furs couldn’t hide his large frame either. Nor the extra padding in his cheeks. The healthy shine to his hair and beard. There was some luxury here and it was clear who most of it went to.

“Let’s cut to the chase then,” Geralt said. “We don’t intend to overstay our welcome. Yoven says that one of your own,” he put just a bit of emphasis on those words, “has gone missing. Will you hire me to find her?”

“Hire _us_ ,” Jaskier said, just as Yoven began protesting that he’d never intended for this. Lin looked between them and all the while Roger’s eyes didn’t leave Geralt’s, steady and sure.

“We have no coin,” he said.

“We don’t ask for much.”

“Did you not hear? There’s none, Witcher.”

“None at all?”

“Must I repeat myself a third time?”

Geralt’s smile was tight. “No. Very well.”

He stood, ignoring the stricken look on Jaskier’s face. To avoid it further he grabbed Jaskier’s mug and downed the rest of his ale too, squeezing whatever he could from this small, lying town. Let the bard be upset. Witchers weren’t in the habit of doing deeds for free, no matter what his songs claimed, and while Gerlat might not fit in among all his brethren, he wasn’t that far gone. A bleeding heart led only to an empty stomach. The sooner his little attendant learned that, the better.

Perhaps he’d misjudged him though because Jaskier only whispered a hurried goodbye to Lin and Yoven, pulling the former’s grip off the front of his shirt. The two of them left the building stride-in-stride, Roger’s eyes boring into their backs.

However, level with Roach Jaskier threw out an arm. Not enough to touch, just to stop him. Geralt grunted.

“His fingernails,” Jaskier said.

Clearly hunger was already having an effect. “Whose? What about them?”

“ _Roger's_ ,” and Geralt was surprised by the malice he managed to pour into that one word. “Look, I know you’re not going to believe me but that was dried blood under his nails. I’m sure of it. ‘Why, that could have come from anything!’ I hear you say, but no, not likely. I’ve had my fair share of dalliances, Geralt, and I’m well familiar with the adornments one accumulates when, say, a particularly enthusiastic encounter leads to a few scratches along the back, the thighs, the—”

“I believe you,” he interrupted.

Jaskier’s mouth—thank the gods—closed with an audible click. “You do?”

“He smelled strongly of rose-water.” When Jaskier only continued to blink Geralt sighed. “Do you know many men inclined to douse themselves in perfume?”

“Well, on occasion _I've_ been known to... okay, yes. I see your point.” That hard glint re-entered Jaskier’s eyes, bright under the moonlight. “Perhaps he has a wife?”

“Perhaps he scratched himself.”

“And perhaps not.”

“Hmm.”

“Which means...?”

“It’s not our problem,” Geralt said. His hand immediately came up, slicing through the protest. “ _No_. This isn’t taking a detour because you want to see Temerian wildflowers. Or taking turns on Roach. I’m a witcher. We don't compromise on this.” It came out a growl, Jaskier’s eyes widening until the whites shown. “No payment, no help. If you dislike that arrangement _then you can leave_.”

For one sick moment Geralt thought Jaskier might follow that suggestion. But all he did was huff and cross his arms.

“Yes, except you never let me ride Roach. And the wildflowers weren’t in bloom when we took that route! You’re not exactly helping your case here, Geralt. Now, if you’d like to debate the ethics of witcher contracts properly I’d be happy to introduce you to Count Norris’ Thirty-Six Rules For Conducting a Debate. Terribly dry stuff, but it helped us young men immensely at the Academy. Much more civilized than your method of,” Jaskier gestured. “Pointing. Growling. _Grunting_.”

In response, Geralt grunted.

“Melitele save us.”

“ _Wait!_ ”

It startled them both, Lin’s high-pitched voice sounding through the night air. They watched him pelt out of the commons and Yoven begin to follow, only for Roger to stop him with a hand on his shoulder. Words were exchanged, then they both slipped back inside. By then Lin was passing on the other side of the well, now whispering furiously for them to wait, wait, please wait. He disappeared into a nearby hut.

“Huh,” Jaskier said. “Guess we should wait.”

He sounded far too pleased for Geralt’s liking.

Waiting meant nothing though. They would still be leaving, just as soon as the boy had shown them whatever he’d gone off to fetch. Geralt owed him that much at least, for the respect and the company. Not many bothered to offer either to witchers, let alone both. Even rarer from children.

In the meantime he wandered off to a nearby patch of dirt, relieving himself of the ale he’d chugged. From the corner of his eye Geralt watched as Jaskier bent and snatched up a handful of dried grass, offering it to Roach. Her snort of disgust carried far.

When Lin returned Geralt’s pants were shut, Jaskier was pouting, and the poor boy was terribly out of breath. He extended his palm and revealed to them a number of tarnished coins.

Jaskier let out a low whistle. 

“I found ‘em,” Lin whispered, eyes darting like he was afraid that any moment now the rest of the village would wake and catch him in this act. “Last spring. While lookin’ for berries I found this old pouch buried in the ground, see. It fell apart when I touched it, but inside were _these_.” Lin pushed the coins forward, dropping them onto Geralt’s gloves. “Wanted to use 'em for food but Pa says they’re too old. No one will take ‘em anymore. But I'm not stupid. I know Pa doesn't know everything. It’s still money, right?” His eyes were just like Jaskier’s, wide and white.

“No,” Geralt said and the whole boy deflated.

They weren’t coin. No more than bread was still a meal once it had molded. Or a sword a weapon once broken. Under a witcher’s gaze the designs were clear, bearing the symbols of kingdoms that no longer existed. Anyone who tried to trade these for something as precious as food would be laughed out of the establishment.

Nevertheless...

“These are yours,” Geralt said, tossing the coins lightly in hand. “You found them. Your property. Are you willing to trade them for my services?”

Lin’s head shot back up. “Yes!”

“I’ll only accept them all. Think carefully.”

To his credit, the boy did. “I believe Talden, sir. If he says there’s a monster, there’s a monster, an’ I don’t want no monster near me and my Pa.”

Geralt looked to the commons. Yes. Monsters and men. “Very well, then it’s a deal.” He slipped the coins into a small pocket hidden on the inside of his armor. “The contract is between us though. You, me, and the bard. Don’t tell your father we’ve made it. Don’t tell your elder. You won’t see us, but we’ll be here. Do you trust me to uphold my end of the bargain?”

Lin nodded, solemn as only a child could be.

“Good. Then return to your father. Tell him...” Geralt faltered.

“Tell him you gave me a bit of twine for my papers,” Jaskier said. “It’s true enough I always need it and I doubt he could get too mad at you for that.”

Geralt nodded.

So Lin returned to the men, casting glances behind him the whole way, but loudly spinning a tale of disappointment on their part. The witcher and his companion were leaving, Lin said, and even from a distance Gerlat could tell that Roger was pleased.

“You softie,” Jaskier said.

They were leading Roach back into the wood, looking for a spot where she could remain in relative safety, yet unlikely to be noticed. Geralt had no desire to answer such an absurd lead-in... yet once again he felt that scratch in the back of his throat. He was issuing a response before he’d even decided to give one.

“What are you talking about?”

“You! ‘ _I’m a witcher. No payment, no help_.’” Jaskier dipped his voice and started a weird sort of waddle. If it was meant to be an impression, it wasn’t flattering. “All that talk of your merciless code and you chuck it out with the bathwater the moment some kid makes doe-eyes at you.”

"Hardly. To a witcher molded bread is still a meal and in their hands a broken sword is still a weapon." 

"...I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. I believe you're deranged." 

“And you’re a fool.” Quick as a flash one of the coins was in his hand. Geralt tossed it and watched Jaskier’s attempts not to fumble it into the grass. “Feel that? Elven steel. No human has had easy access to it since the cleansing. Useless as currency, but a smith would pay a hefty amount to melt it down. Provided there’s enough to work with.” He gave the pocket a light smack, causing it to jingle. “Lin offered a price that was more than fair, just didn’t know it.”

“...Oh,” Jaskier whispered and moved to hand back the coin. As he did that absurd ring of his caught the light, drawing Geralt’s attention.

“While you’re learning something today? _Don’t_ brag to others about how much your jewelry is worth.”

“Can teach you some things too,” Jaskier muttered, but was quickly silenced when the coin actually passed between them. Geralt didn’t extend his palm, but rather took it straight from Jaskier’s hand, fingers brushing fingers. With his gloves on it wasn’t as bad. Wasn’t as good either. But it drew another smile from Jaskier and that, he found, was enough.


	6. Chapter 6

_Act I: The Boy_

_Dawn rose a short time later. Cool and fragile as spun glass, the sun’s rays did not warm them. No, they only served to highlight all that was wrong with this quaint, quiet town. Poverty was now visible in every rusted tool and threadbare clothesline, puddles seeping past doorsteps and cracks climbing the walls. It was a cruel day. Cold and merciless as winter approached. Yet these hardships didn’t faze the Witcher. He sat, back against a tree, methodically sharpening his silver sword. Only the gods knew what horror it would eventually cut down..._

Geralt eyed Jaskier’s scribbling. “What are you writing?” 

“Have I ever mentioned,” he said, head still bent low over the journal. “How much I absolutely _loathe_ the countryside?” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Well you asked what I was writing.” With a scowl Jaskier tossed it all away, both quill and book only just landing on his bag and not the berry bush covered in dewdrops. Geralt let out an internal sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was for the bard to throw a fit about ruined materials. He was restless enough as it was. 

After finding a spot for Roach where she could settle in for the wait, they’d returned to the treeline, now crouched behind a small outcrop. The rocks gave them a bit of shelter from the wind, allowing Jaskier to catch some much-needed sleep, but more importantly they allowed Geralt to watch the settlement without being seen, occasionally peering through a well-placed crack. It had been almost peaceful, that moment between night and dawn. Then Jaskier had awakened with a start—nightmares no doubt. Surviving drowners, no matter in how absurd a manner, was bound to leave its mark—and since then hadn’t shown the slightest interest in keeping still. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continued, chewing another handful of the bush’s leaves. The berries would serve only to loosen his bowels, but the waxy foliage was a good alternative, rich in nutrients. _Like a fresh salad_ , he’d said. _Only not like that at all_. Still, it hadn’t stopped Jaskier from rendering a patch of the poor bush bare and now Geralt was treated to the lovely sight of half-masticated shrubbery. “The countryside is, without a doubt, a poet’s great inspiration. Rolling hills! Vivid blooms! Adventure around each corner! Except—what doesn’t make it into the ballads and what I must be careful to exorcise myself—is all the truly _horrendous_ experiences in between those bright, shining details. Like hunger.” Faster chewing. “Or wet boots.” A thunk. “And while I completely understand our circumstances, you cannot deny me the vindictive release of expressing a fundamental truth: that this isn’t exactly a night spent at the Passiflora, Geralt. So yes. I am writing about this forest and this town and how I am beginning to hate the both of them. Even more than I hate Vlado Marx and you should well remember what kind of bar _that_ is.” Jaskier drew a massive breath, stuffed another handful of leaves inside, and glared. 

An accurate, if dramatic assessment of the situation. Geralt was used to such conditions, but Jaskier’s clean-cut nails and plump cheeks told a different story. One that Geralt was still trying to translate. How that had found its way here. He went back to sharpening his sword and when the familiar movements had eased the slight pain in his chest he said, 

“Passiflora isn’t too far from here.” 

Well, depending on what you compared it to. But Geralt could see the slight ‘o’ of Jaskier’s mouth from beneath his lids. Knew that he understood what was left unsaid. They didn’t have to take this contract. Or if they did—if the memory of Lin’s pleas would weigh too heavy on them both—they could still finish quickly and turn towards Novigrad. Much as Geralt was loath to pack himself in among drunks and fervent worshipers, he couldn’t deny that there was some sense in it too. There they could sell their coin to the elven smiths who might even pay more to get a piece of their homeland back, sentimentality outweighing the practical. It was worth a shot. If there was work at least it would come from those with something in their pockets and if there wasn’t? The walls brought safety and some relief from the elements, if nothing else. Most importantly, Geralt could easily picture himself leading Jaskier safely to the establishment’s front doors, a place where his music and good looks could no doubt secure him anything he wished. Everything from soft fur rugs under his feet to the expected women in his bed. 

It wasn’t an image he found particularly compelling though, no matter how clear. 

Jaskier had gone still. The stillest he’d been in hours. “Are the rumors true then?” 

Geralt made a sound in the back of his throat, a question mark tacked onto the end of it. 

“About witchers, I mean. Word on the street—and here I do mean that literally—is that your mutations give you... an extra kick, so to speak.” Jaskier went so far as to waggle his eyebrows and Geralt curled more firmly around his sword. “Oh come now! Your stamina is legendary! All I’m saying is that if you wished to go to the Passiflora—” 

“No.” 

“—together—”

“ _Together?_ ” 

“—I think that would be a marvelous way to top off this adventure. Rescue a damsel and then go find two damsels of our own. Or more than two, depending on what that coin gets us. I wonder if Henrietta is still there...” 

“I meant that I might leave you there,” and gods, no sooner had the words escaped his mouth then Geralt regretted them. The choice and the tone and all that they were made of. Because what he _meant_ was that Jaskier could leave if he wished. Return to warm fires and better company, everything that the Path was not. Which now seemed a foolish reminder given how long he’d spent trying to shake the bard loose. Indeed, Jaskier snorted so hard at the suggestion that Geralt briefly felt the urge to look around for Roach. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said, unknowingly providing relief in his defiance. “Besides, why do you think I’m here?” 

Geralt blinked. “Your work.” He nodded to the discarded notes, but Jaskier made a dismissive gesture. 

“A bonus, yes, but I prefer too pampered a lifestyle to give it up for details alone. After all, how many other poets are out there writing and singing of witchers? In a complimentary manner, anyway. I’ve found my forte, one that no one else has dared touch, and thus my audience doesn’t care whether a song of mine describes drowner skin as being blue or green.” 

“Depends on the region.” 

Jaskier thunked the heel of his boot down into the dirt. “They don’t _care_ , Geralt. The novelty alone is enough. I could sit comfortably in a boarding house, making up imagery to my heart’s content, safe in the knowledge that a mere day in your company has provided me with enough inspiration for work across a lifetime. This nonsense,” he grabbed another handful of leaves and shook them. “Isn’t necessary. Or do we need to have another conversation about truth and sales?” 

Geralt suddenly discovered great gratitude in having something to do with his hands. He gave his sword careful attention, despite the fact that he could clean and sharpen it blind. Which he had. Vesemir had made sure of that. 

“Then why come along?” he said, the question coming out a grunt. One stroke, two, and the blade let out a particularly angry _shing_. 

“Why...?” To his utter shock Jaskier laughed, a bubbly thing that made Geralt fear the leaves hadn’t been good for him after all. It stilled his hand and for a moment he simply stared, struck dumb by the display. Jaskier did that a lot it seemed, yet it never failed to startle. Who laughed at a _witcher_? 

Only fools and madmen. 

“Quiet. You’ll wake the whole town!” 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just, don’t you know? I’m here for you. How is that any secret?” 

Geralt blinked. “But I don’t need you.” It was true enough. What good was a bard at a witcher’s side, especially when he became another mouth to feed on the journey, a body to keep safe from beasts and men alike? It was true, so Geralt wasn’t sure why Jaskier’s flinch cut as it did, stilling his breath and forcing his eyes back down to his sword. 

“Well,” Jaskier said, voice rough. “No. Perhaps you don’t _need_ -need me. To, you know, help with the killing and the hunting and the like. You’re quite self-sufficient. Wouldn’t ever deny that. But, I like to think—and do correct me if I’m wrong—that I nevertheless bring a little... hmm style, shall we say, to this adventure of ours. I am not merely your chronicler but your companion. If we’ve settled on that term. An ear that you may speak to. Wisdom that is at your disposal. A shoulder to lean on. Metaphorically, of course. ‘Need’ is not merely about the practical, Geralt. Or so I choose to believe.” 

He said it so casually, so confidently, like this was simply a fact. Perhaps for some it was. Like Jaskier. Or Trish. The royals who were so enamored with their titles and comforts that to live without them was no life at all. He supposed it came down to what one was used to... and against Geralt’s better judgment, he was quickly becoming used to Jaskier. 

He nodded, such a little thing that nevertheless relaxed Jaskier’s shoulders. Something to remember then. “It’s like my name.” 

“Right. You’ve gone and lost me again. It’s really rude of you to keep spouting nonsense like that.” 

“‘of Rivia,’” he said, ignoring the complaints. “I’m not from Rivia. Only been there once. But witchers are encouraged to take surnames. Try to fit in, stupid as it sounds.” Geralt shrugged, feeling oddly self-conscious. “We don’t need them...” 

“But it makes things easier,” Jaskier finished. “Precisely. Just because you can get by without something doesn’t mean you have to. Or should. I am your last name. Your feather bed. Your Toussaint wine, chocolate from Novigrad, a beautifully tailored shirt, those fancy pouches you like so much. The ones that hold all the potions—” 

“Think rather highly of yourself.” 

“Well yes. With good reason.” 

Hmph. Perhaps. To his eternal annoyance though some of that agreement must have shown on his face because Jaskier suddenly scurried to his side, knees in the dirt as he peered through that crack. “Allow me to prove my worth then. I think you’re wrong.” 

Geralt huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Seriously, there’s no reason to believe that we’ll be able to get Talden alone. What makes you think he’ll even be up first?” 

“Because,” he said, finally re-sheathing his sword. “Children are always responsible for the worst chores and one who lies about mugs and chickens will enjoy the freedom that dawn brings.” 

No sooner had he finished speaking then one of the doors creaked open, two past the one Lin had disappeared in last night. Geralt found himself beside Jaskier, armor brushing wool, the two of them sharing the space and, to his great surprise, not thinking much of it. Jaskier certainly didn’t move. If anything he pressed closer, the slightest shift in his weight that no ordinary man would have caught, and Geralt found that he had no reason to challenge that. 

He pulled his gaze away from the green in Jaskier’s eyes and settled on the boy. 

He was, all things considered, average. Almost insulting in his commonness. Light skin and brown hair. A shirt that had been mended too many times and one boot with the heel missing, giving his gait an awkwardness that some might find charming. He jumped a few times to ward off the cold. 

“How do we know that’s Talden?” Jaskier whispered, perhaps suitably chastised for his lack of faith. Geralt couldn’t stop the small smile he gave in response and found that he was pleased to teach him more.

“Could be a couple kids here,” he agreed. “But how many are scared of their own home?” 

It was... satisfying, watching Jaskier come to the same conclusions. Geralt observed his expressions as he picked out all the things that shown so obvious to a witcher: Talden’s skittish glances, as if he looked upon new territory rather than the village he'd grown up in. Hands wiping compulsively down the front of his shirt. Then shaking as he began to stack firewood. Talden kept his back to the houses at all times, never the woods. Head cocked, he strained to hear something, anything, hoping he wouldn’t and yet also hoping he would, just to end the suspense. Geralt knew the look well. It was the foundation of his trade. 

In the end, Geralt decided he would break that suspense himself. From his pack he pulled out a small portion of cheese and watched Jaskier’s mouth unhinge. 

“Where was _that_ when I was eating birds and leaves?” 

“Saved it.” 

“Well clearly. Who’s the lucky recipient? I’ll give you a hint. It’s spelled J, a, s, k...” 

“T-a-l-d-e-n,” Geralt said, enjoying the flash of frustration it produced. 

“Jasktalden. What a name.” 

“Don’t care what he’s named, just that he talks. Easiest way to bribe a witness? Feed them.” 

As Jaskier muttered something about trying that on a duchess sometime, Geralt let out a whistle, just low enough that it would travel to the boy and no farther. He froze, whole body rigid as fear set in, and with surprising accuracy he managed to locate their position. Geralt moved only a small ways out from behind the outcrop, making sure he led with the cheese. 

“Just looking to talk,” he whispered, food extended in offering. 

He hoped the boy wouldn’t bolt. Or worse, rouse the whole village in his fear, for a witcher and a monster were near indistinguishable to most. Indeed, it looked for a moment as if Talden would do just that... until Jaskier’s head popped out as well. Wind-blown hair and a jaunty smile. So awkward he couldn’t possibly be a threat. Not even to a child. 

“Just talk,” confirmed, gesturing Talden over. 

He took the first couple steps with hesitation, then picked up the pace. As Talden slid behind the outcrop and began gobbling the cheese, Geralt thought, unbidden,

_Perhaps he’s needed after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm gonna cover so much ground with this chapter!  
> Me @ me: You're gonna have Geralt and Jaskier talk for 2,000 words. Don't lie to yourself 
> 
> Just so we're all on the same page, the other day I finished a 20,000 word fic... that covered 24 hours. So, yeah. This story might take a while lol


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers! So sorry for not updating last week. This is officially The Semester From Hell (yes, it deserves all caps) so there may be times where I falter a bit. But for now I'm back <3

“You’re an ugly bastard” were the first words out of Talden’s mouth, distinguishable even around the cheese. Geralt thought that he seemed rather mouse-like. Not just due to the foodstuff quickly disappearing from his hands, but in how his eyes skittered from one thing to the next: hair, eyes, sword, armor, hands, boots, scowl. He was a twitchy little thing, like a prey animal with enough instincts to be scared, yet still too stupid to run. No doubt part of that stemmed from talk of monsters, but Geralt would have bet his next bag of coin that recent events had only exasperated what was already at Talden’s core. Here was a child who spoke first and thought about consequences second.

He reminded Geralt of Lambert. His brother had once said that if the world insisted on biting first then there was no reason not to approach it with sword in hand, ready to swing. He’d been young then, untested, safe behind Kaer Morhen’s walls and naive to all that the Path would teach him. So he’d stupidly said, _Not always_ , feeling the same push to beat Lambert in word games as when they crossed fists or played Gwent. _Sometimes it’s kind. Not always, but..._

Lambert had laughed. Not a cruel thing, just honest. _No, Wolf. If it seems like kindness that just means the teeth haven’t reached your skin yet._

Talden held that truth behind his eyes. _There must be something attached to this gift_ , they said. And he’d be right.

“I am ugly,” Geralt agreed, trying his damnedest to ignore the sounds beside him. “Got a problem with that?”

“Nope.” Talden shook his head, fringe flying wildly above his eyes. “Mum says I’m an ugly bastard too, but that’s just ‘cause I got all my looks from her.” He grinned, unrepentant, and then his gaze strayed to Jaskier. “How’d you get such pretty company then? You’re not from around here. Never seen eyes like either of yours.” Talden stuffed the final bit of cheese into his mouth, chewing like a cow with cud. 

Jaskier swept into a low bow, his right arm extending outward with fingers perfectly splayed. He looked ridiculous, given the mud-splattered pants and early morning shivers. 

“I am Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he said, speaking directly to the ground. “Second son of Miriam and Chester Pankratz, proud decedents of the Pankratz and Ainsworth lines.” 

Geralt blinked. 

“Better known as ‘Jaskier’ to my friends and fans, but a strapping young man such as yourself is welcome to call me whatever you wish. Just please, refrain from unnecessary vulgarity. Or anything that might put too much emphasis on how pretty I am. I fear it’s quite the worry of mine: that these good looks will destroy the self-worth of everyone else around me. I simply couldn’t bear it and thus we shouldn’t draw any more attention to my good luck than necessary.” Jaskier finally looked up, dropping Talden a wink. 

Whatever insane depths he’d managed to pull that speech from, it had clearly worked. Upon finishing the food Geralt had immediately noticed the boy’s frame going tense again, but it melted at the absurd display, Talden now snickering behind one grubby hand. He gave Jaskier a thorough once-over. 

“We had a chicken once, me mum and I did,” he said. “She was real pretty too, with orange and red feathers, but a bit of blue as well. You look like her, dressed in that shirt.” 

“And what did you call this noble chicken of yours?” 

“Chicken.” 

“Ah.” 

Geralt watched the strange contortion of Jaskier’s features and decided that he had never seen their like. 

“Guess you’re ‘Chicken’ then,” he said. There was a great deal of grumbling, but Geralt ignored it in favor of picking up his sword. It was a deliberate action, slow and steady, serving as a transition from their games back to work. Perhaps Talden recognized the silver peeking out from beneath the sheath, glinting in the morning light. He may have heard stories of witchers with their golden eyes and scarred features, perhaps even a few about the one with white hair... but probably not. Their small settlement appeared isolated from all but the other, equally small communities around them, forming a strange kind of communal loneliness. No one brought news and song to these people and there was no one to care if something happened to them. 

Except him. Talden didn’t need to recognize a witcher, only a man with steel on his back. 

“We’re looking for a woman,” Geralt said, fixing his strap but holding Talden’s gaze. “Goes by Sage. Your friend Lin said you heard something the night she disappeared.” 

With a scowl Talden picked up a nearby stone and chucked it into the brush. “Lin? Lin talks too much.” 

Jaskier hummed. “Didn’t talk enough, I’d say. Otherwise we wouldn’t need you too.” 

“Shut up, Chicken.” 

“Sadly that’s the one thing I’ve never been very good at. But it’s a lot harder for me to speak if you’re speaking too. So?” 

He shrank. Down into the dirt and back into the outcrop, eyes ever dancing across the trees. At least Talden’s fear wasn’t directed at them, only a wary kind of respect now. The quick, fierce emotions that could only ever develop in children. So Geralt crouched, inching just a bit closer. 

“It’s only information we want,” he said. “Payment for the food. Those memories can’t hurt you, but whatever you heard?” Geralt nodded into the forest. “That remains a threat. It could come back and this time it might take far more from you than just your courage.” 

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier hissed. 

“Tell me what you heard and I can rid you of it. The beast, if not the memory.” 

“Didn’t hear nothin’.” Talden pulled his knees up to his chest and bit into the wool of his pants, briefly but fiercely. “...heard somethin’,” he amended then, in the same exact tone. Geralt waited him out. “I broke a dish. Didn’t mean to that time, just bumped the table, but Mum was mad enough to thump my ears and send me to bed without dinner. Not that dinner is missing much anyways.” Hands strayed down towards his stomach, clenching. “But I got up later. Thought Mum might have left a little somethin’ out. She does sometimes. Won’t say anything, just leaves it. So I was lookin’ around when I heard this...” 

Talden’s brow creased, seemingly unsure how to go on. Geralt kept still as a statue. Even Jaskier was quiet. In time Talden’s booted foot came up and slammed down into the dirt. He did the same with the other. 

“Footsteps.” Geralt said. 

Talden shook his head. “None like mine. Not normal. _Big_. Like a whole mountain was comin’ through. If it had been a wolf or a bear I wouldn’t have minded. Seen them all the time and they’ll run fast if you make yourself loud. But this...” He trailed off again, curling into a ball. Talden’s eyes remained hard above his knees though, tiny chips of stone. “Wasn’t right. So I hid, beneath the table under the window, feelin’ it shake as they passed. They were right on the other side of our wall. Right _there_.” He pointed to a random spot, emphasizing the short distance. 

Geralt considered. Then: “They?” 

“Aye. Two of ‘em. I know because they spoke, but not... not—not _right_. Like the footsteps. It sounded like talkin’. Just not talkin’ I could understand.” Talden bit into his lip, frustrated. 

Geralt, however, sat back on his heels, humming deep in his throat. Strange as the description would have been to some—and indeed, Jaskier’s eyebrows were reaching new heights—it narrowed the possibilities. Considerably. 

“So wait,” Jaskier said. He held out two hands as if to physically stall them. “These people, monsters, whoever... they just waltzed in, chatting? And what? Took Sage out of her bed?” 

Talden went a shade paler. “I... I don’t think she was in her bed, Chicken. Like me. I know ‘cause when mom first sent me up I watched Nelly from my window—the cat that hangs ‘round here—and I saw Sage goin’ over to Old Roger’s place. He talks to her sometimes. Nights mostly. But I never saw her leave and I _would_ have. Sage is nice. She gives me little gifts, even when everyone else is mad ‘bout something.” Talden rolled back his sleeve to reveal a skinny bracelet woven from grass, now yellowed and curled. “I like Sage. Her sis too. So I was watchin’ thinkin’... I don’t know. Just thinkin’ she’d come back out soon and I’d watch her go. But then I got so hungry I had to check and I went downstairs and... the rest. You know the rest. If Sage left, she left when the monsters were out.” Talden blinked, eyes shining, looking as if he was coming out of a daze. “Hey. What’s all that to you, anyway?”

“Told you. We’re looking for her. You’ve been a help.” Geralt bent into his pack and retrieved more cheese, the last bit this time. He broke it in two, handing one piece out to Jaskier. He considered the offering before sighing, the most put-upon sound Geralt had ever heard, and shoved it at Talden. The boy inhaled the morsel with worrying speed and Jaskier’s expression was unknowable. 

“Are you gonna find her?” 

“Going to try.” 

“Why?” 

“Because your friend paid me to.” At the word ‘paid’ Talden’s eyes blew wide and the thinnest thread of humor shot through Geralt. “He successfully negotiated with and hired a witcher.” 

“ _Whoa_.” 

“Mhmm,” Geralt agreed. He dangled the last piece of cheese before the kid, bait for a different kind of prey. “Very impressive. Contract’s private though, so you won’t be talking about it. Right?” 

“Right,” Talden echoed and the food was dropped into his hand. Hand went up over his mouth and the food disappeared. Without the incentive he stood and began inching back towards his village. It was only at the very edge of the outcrop that his expression faltered. “And the monsters? You’ll kill them too?” 

“If they need killing.” 

“If...?” The words clearly confused him, but Talden shook the feeling off like a dog sheds water. Behind him his people were beginning to wake, the sounds of footfalls and tired voices filling the air. It was a shame, really. Not that the forest was ever silent, but it didn’t put a strain on Geralt's ears like humanity did. Everything from breathing to chewing to the slightest gurgle in the stomach. Geralt heard it all if he didn’t actively work to tune it out, a witcher’s ears too sensitive for the amount of noise that people tended to drum up, even when they were doing nothing except existing as they should. It was one of the reasons why they traveled solo on the Path. Peace was something witchers knew so little of to begin with. There was no reason to steal what they had from one another. 

Funny then, that it took him so long to register Jaskier at his side. 

He’d moved. Not far, just a little closer as Talden began to leave. There was nothing sinister in the action, but that didn’t mean Geralt shouldn’t have _felt_ it. The soft crunch of his boots on the forest floor. The shift of cloth against skin. Each lungful of air and compulsive swallow. The sounds of living permeated even when they weren’t produced by loud, obnoxious nuisances—which Jaskier very much was. It left Geralt staring, wondering how he’d gotten so close without him realizing. Or why he didn’t _care_ now that he had. Taking Geralt’s hand right off his knee... moving so close in the middle of a contract... anyone capable of sneaking up on him like that was a threat, plain and simple. 

But all Geralt felt was... relief. An odd contentment that Jaskier registered as so quiet, even though he had so much to say. 

What a strange combination. 

Talden had no knowledge of such thoughts, nor surely any interest in them if he had. The kid began shooting frantic looks back at his people, now waking all together. One voice in particular, a woman’s, made his mouth twist. 

“Go,” Geralt urged. 

“Mum’s gonna kill me. Didn’t start the wood.” Talden was muttering, but licking his lips too, clearly remembering the taste of his snack. He looked up then, pointing straight at Jaskier. “Chicken and...?” His finger swung to Geralt. 

“Wolf,” he said.

“Wolf,” Talden laughed and shot off, making it back to the clearing before those out of their houses could spot what direction he’d come from. A woman with his same hair and ears immediately started up a ruckus and they watched as he said something quiet, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. Whatever the comment was, it earned him a sharp shove back towards the house. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. He pointed to their left. 

There, at the very end of the small settlement, was a pale, fair-haired woman who stood apart from the others. That shouldn’t have seemed the case given that she did nothing other than dump out a now stagnant pail of water, a mindless chore akin to all the other work that had begun, but there was just something that marked her as different from the rest. Perhaps the fact that she didn’t raise her eyes to give perfunctory nods to her neighbors. Or maybe because her neighbors resolutely didn’t look towards her either. 

Only Talden looked, squirming under his mother’s hold. He stared at her, then briefly flicked his eyes towards the outcrop. He couldn’t see Geralt and Jaskier, but the message was plain.

Laren then. 

With a jerk of his head Geralt told him to move. His grabbed his pack, felt the weight of his sword, and Jaskier fished his journal from the bushes. He left the quill and small pot of ink where they were, instead running a hand subconsciously over the top of his pants. Geralt noted the outline of two crude pencils there, no doubt secured in some manner. 

Necessities gathered, Geralt led them back into the woods, just far enough so that they could circle the village without being seen. An old but simple hunter’s trick. If you can see the prey, than it was possible for the prey to see you too, so he hissed whenever Jaskier got too close, looking as if he meant to snag another glance. Only when they reached the patch they’d walked through the night before—five scents still lingering, Roach’s included—did Geralt stop, inching his way towards the backs of the cottages. Old Roger’s was easy enough to find, given the larger size and the smell of roasting meat from within. He was the only one, it seemed, fortunate enough to be preparing a hot breakfast and Geralt traced the outside of his home, stepping with caution. He normally wouldn’t attempt getting this close, but here discovery would result only in nuisance rather than any danger. A worthwhile risk given what he needed to find. 

Tracks. Or rather, an attempt to obliterate tracks. Random scuff-marks to most, but the beginnings of a good day for a witcher. 

Jaskier crouched just a few feet away, journal tucked awkwardly into his pants like the pencils. He gestured silently but violently, nearly falling over in the process. Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

Instead of answering the silent question he set off, following the barely-there marks back into the woods. This time he listened specifically for Jaskier’s approach and though he was as loud and bumbling as any other human, the noises seemed to fade away as soon as Geralt refocused his attention. Like a tap, whose stream of cool water he could now control. On or off; more or less. 

“You found something,” Jaskier said, quiet despite the fact that they were now far enough away to speak freely. Geralt relaxed his shoulders and enjoyed the balm of that. 

“Yes.” 

One simple word and yet it drove the man to giddiness, Jaskier doing an absurd little dance as he followed. This time Geralt did roll his eyes before leading them deeper into the woods. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update appears on a Thursday night! I'm either somewhat early or very late depending on your perspective :D

They followed the prints for half an hour. Or rather, they followed what very quickly became prints, the culprits in question growing bored—or perhaps incapable—of covering their tracks. The presumably random scuffs of dirt became indentations with time, then the indentations became obvious footfalls. Geralt had watched, vaguely amused, as Jaskier spotted one, mouth unhinging as he made a comparison to his own booted foot. There would need to be four Jaskiers to equal its size. His swallow was the loudest sound in the woods.

“Want to turn back?” Geralt asked. He already knew the answer, but found that hearing it was... nice.

True to form, Jaskier shook his head and adopted what he probably thought was a brave expression. It might have been persuasive if it weren’t for his eyes continually flicking back to those footprints.

“No, no. No turning back. If I can survive murderous elves and drowners I’m sure that this will be a piece of cake. Whatever this is.” The moment stretched. His mouth pursed, Jaskier finally broke. “Okay what is it? Because all I know right now is that it’s _big_.”

Geralt chuckled, one of the few real laughs he’d experienced in months. Perhaps years. He caught the brief look of delighted shock on Jaskier’s face before turning away, crouching to examine the footprints for himself. Beyond just being massive they were deep, speaking of great weight. None of the tracks were straight and many of them dragged in places. After all, the creatures weren’t known for being nimble of foot.

“What do you think they are?”

Jaskier scowled. “I know that I’m extraordinarily talented, but I’m not the witcher here, am I? If I didn’t know better I’d say you were fishing for an answer because you’re unsure.”

The only response Geralt gave was the raising of one single, white eyebrow.

“Okay. That’s admittedly not very likely.” The toe of Jaskier’s boot dug into the earth. “Seriously though, why ask me? Does traveling come with written exams now? Because I warn you, I was never particularly good at those in school. I much preferred the practical approach, if you catch my meaning.”

“It's impossible to miss your meaning,” Geralt muttered, continuing along the path. He could just hear the beginnings of water in the distance. Checking to make sure the fool had followed, he raised his voice again. “Because you need to learn. I might not always be close. What food to forage for. How to unbind your hands. I won’t—”

_Be responsible for your death_ , he wanted to say, but Geralt’s mouth snapped shut.

“Fine, fine. Though my imagination would more than suffice, I suppose some authenticity never truly went amiss.” Jaskier pulled one of the pencils out, tapping it rhythmically against the leather of his journal. “If I take a guess are you going to be rude again?”

“Rude?”

“‘They don’t exist, Bard.’ Don’t think I’ve forgotten that snide little comment. I told you, I’m keeping a list of your insults. However, if I had to choose something whose existence I’d be willing to bet money on...” The pencil rose up to his lips. “Fiend?”

It was, all things considered, not a bad guess. For someone who knew nothing of beastology, anyway. Jaskier had clearly taken the creature’s size into account, as well as the bifurcated toes. He’d gone too big, however, and apparently couldn’t read tracks well enough to distinguish between two and four legged monsters, even if fiends were known to sometimes rise on their hind legs. They also didn’t tend to travel in pairs. Too territorial. Geralt said as much, chest warming as he watched Jaskier dutifully note it all down next to his poetry.

Hmm. Sun must be higher now. He felt positively hot, despite the previous chill in the air.

“Likely to rip each other’s heads off,” Jaskier murmured, presumably writing that down too. Geralt opened his mouth to protest only to realize that, yes, he had in fact seen that happen. “What are they then? I’m not taking a second guess because I don’t have a second guess. Drowners, fiends, and griffins are about the extent of my repertoire... oh bless the gods, it’s not a griffin, is it?”

If only. Griffins were a whole lot less annoying. “No. They’re rock trolls.”

“ _Rock trolls!_ ”

“Yes.”

“...what’s a rock troll?”

“A troll made out of rocks.” He couldn’t resist and when a clump of dirt hit the back of his legs Geralt could admit that he deserved it.

“Hilarious,” Jaskier drawled. He did a little jog to come level with him. “Drowners are creatures that drown people. Rock trolls are trolls made out of rocks. I’m beginning to get the sense that you witchers aren’t the most creative bunch when it comes to naming things.”

With a single snap Geralt broke off a branch, giving them both space to pass through. “The names serve their purpose. Not worth making things more complicated than they need to be.”

“Oh ho ho, that's where you're wrong. You clearly have no concept of art, my friend.”

There it was. Two words, slipping out without Jaskier noticing. Geralt knew because the beat of his heart remained steady and his gaze overly fond, a sound and a look encompassing enough to briefly drown out the rest of the forest. He should have corrected him, like in the bath and beside the fire, but all at once Geralt was loathe to ruin the conversation. Few were willing to speak to him at such length. Yoven, Lin, Talden, and Jaskier. Suddenly, in the morning light, each interaction felt like something precious. Not something he should need, but desired all the same. Geralt briefly touched the pocket hiding their coins and considered the concept of luxury. It wasn’t always removed from a witcher’s life.

So he let those two words sit, noticed only by him. Jaskier was busy doodling something in the corner of his journal, occasionally sacrificing footing to do so.

Geralt settled for an ambiguous grunt, turning them a little west. The sound of water had grown louder.

“Rock trolls are a part of the ogroid race. They’re a sentient species. Not like drowners, nekkers, or lesser vampires. Bruxae being the exception.” Geralt spoke to the trees ahead of him, his words falling into the cadence Vesemir would adopt whenever he gave a lecture. Geralt hadn’t realized he’d picked up that habit until just now when it poured forth without his consent.

“So they’re intelligent?”

Geralt paused, considering. “Am I?”

“Are—?” He heard the stumble beside him but resolutely kept his gaze straight ahead. “What kind of a question is that?”

“An honest one.” Geralt shrugged. “I don’t look like you humans. Don’t follow your rules, speak the way you want, do the things you’d prefer I do or the way you’d prefer I do them...” His eyes finally slid to Jaskier, noting the contemplative expression. “You’ve seen me at a banquet. Do I come across as _intelligent_ to you?”

“Yes.”

The surety of the answer threw him. Just for a moment Geralt felt like he’d lost his own footing, even as his body instinctively navigated the forest floor without him. Another difference then. One that apparently didn’t matter.

“Just because you do things differently or lack certain knowledge doesn’t mean you’re—you’re— _dumb_.” Jaskeir stumbled over the word, spitting it out like gravel. “It’s staggeringly clear that you don’t know a thing about the fine arts but—and here I fear I may very well regret admitting this—what does it matter? I don’t know a thing about starting fires, as my poor, burnt cuff attests. Everyone defines intelligence differently and those definitions change depending on the environment. What you do with your life. Why-ever would you, a witcher, need to know about poetry or the structure of a successful debate? Even if I maintain that your life would be immensely improved by that knowledge.”

“...something else they teach you at school?”

Jaskier grinned, wide enough that his lips began splitting in the cold. “Nope. Figured that out all on my own.”

Which still left him with the question of why a bard would want to learn about starting fires. Need was a given at this point. The beastology lesson was purely practical, an attempt to both keep the fool entertained (Geralt had learned within the first two days that withholding information from Jaskier led only to the most horrendous headaches) and give him the slightest edge in a fight, no matter how flimsy. But today’s needs didn’t explain yesterday’s decisions. Especially when Jaskier insisted that he wasn’t here for the inspiration anymore.

_But I don’t need you._

_Well... no. Perhaps you don’t_ need _-need me... but I like to think—and do correct me if I’m wrong—that I nevertheless bring a little style to this adventure of ours._

A bed. Hot food. Someone who listened and could be bothered to respond. Something more than just the practical. With sun shining through the treetops and a lead spread out before them, Geralt could admit that he was beginning to see the benefits. Or rather, he could acknowledge what he’d apparently seen months back. Why he let this stranger tag along when he could have left him incapacitated on the side of the road. Or why he’d cared at all when he and Jaskier had split. He’d ignored Destiny’s, Fate’s, _Whoever_ ’s offering back in that tavern, but hadn’t succeeded in doing so a second time. Jaskier’s scream wasn’t something Geralt swore he'd never hear again.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Watch Jaskier’s back, and in doing so open him up to all the danger a witcher’s life had to offer. Enjoy those non-practical indulgences while he could... while edging towards the day when he’d lose them.

Because it wouldn’t last. Wasn’t possible. And that was fine. Dwelling on the inevitable had never helped anyone, least of all him. Geralt just couldn’t figure out why Jaskier had let this go on as long as it had. Only one of them was gaining something from this partnership and it sure as fuck wasn’t the guy wobbling from hunger.

Jaskier slipped the pen and journal away, trying and failing to hide a yawn.

With a grunt Geralt gestured them forward, eyes scanning for possible threats. Or food. The day might be pretty, but that didn’t make it safe. They were well out of the village’s range now. Territory that could just as easily belong to a monster as an animal. It was a miracle Yoven and Lin had made so many trips and come out the other side of them, not just unharmed but alive. They had enough to deal with at the moment. Unless it was edible, Geralt didn’t want it anywhere near them.

“Rock trolls are the same,” he said, noting the slight jerk as Jaskier fell back into the conversation. “Most wouldn’t consider them intelligent, but...”

“But they’re smart enough to approach during the night. Take her without too much fuss and try to cover their tracks.”

Geralt nodded. “Not the sort of thing they would have done on their own though.”

“Roger.”

“Yes. That would be my guess.”

With a scowl Jaskier stepped over a particularly large limb, giving it a solid kick as he passed. “I knew he couldn’t be trusted. Soon as I laid eyes on him. You didn’t hear him while you were out with Roach, did you? All sorts of vague threats and veiled insults. I don’t normally brag about my former wealth, but he just,” Jaskier wrung an imaginary neck between his hands. “Do you ever just know, instinctively, when a man is an absolute cad?”

Considering that Geralt could smell the soils from their lust, sweat from their anger, and the dried blood from their violence? Yes. He just hummed though, Jaskier clearly happy to push forward without an answer.

“Some village elder he turned out to be. I’m a terribly good judge of character, you know. But by all the gods, why would he want to—hold on now. Is that water?”

Close enough for human ears then. A few more paces and Geralt stepped out onto a riverbank, Jaskier gasping beside him. It was, all things considered, rather idyllic. Sun still shown down through the trees, doing its best to warm them, chasing off the frost they’d walked through just a few hours before. Fall was trying to hang on for as long as it could and there was still a fair amount of green in this corner of the world. Not just the trees, but moss too. It covered every rock along the bank and the rocks, in turn, broke up the river, creating stepping stones that some childish part of Geralt was eager to navigate. He shook the impulse off, instead snagging the back of Jaskier’s shirt as he made to scoop up a drink.

“No,” was all he said, tossing him the water-skin from his bag. He watched Jaskier drink—large gulps to fill up his belly—and left him to it, bending to draw from the river himself. Indignation sounded behind him. 

“Why?” Jaskier said, mocking his tone.

Geralt finished his drink and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Because witchers are immune to most poisons and all common sicknesses. We’d need to boil this water for you. Not me.”

“Lucky bastard,” was whispered around the rim and then the sound of more drinking.

Hunger managed as well as they were able, both stood for a moment, listening to the water, enjoying what was there. It seemed odd that poverty and lies were just a short walk from here. That there was grief behind them, monsters ahead, hunger and cold right at their heels. Geralt took a deep breath and wondered how many of his brothers stopped to appreciate their own survival.

Few, he’d wager. He certainly didn’t do it enough.

“This way,” he said, following the current. Jaskier passed the skin back to him, now empty.

“How do you know?”

“I can smell them.”

“...Ah. Like roses I’d imagine?”

A joke, but Geralt lifted his nose in the air, catching the faint scent under the rancid smell of troll. He jerked his head back down with a grimace.

“Rose-water,” he corrected. “Keep in front of me.”

For once Jaskier did as he was told, skittering ahead to walk in the shallow edge of the water. Geralt returned to scanning the forest on either side, hyper-aware of the growing stench and the knowledge that a number of other creatures might come here for a drink. At every sweep though his eyes passed back over Jaskier and his attention wavered. Just for a second.

_I may well opt for your hands, dear witcher._

He remembered the touch. Fingers pressing against his lifeline, tracing his palm, and the memory was colder than the water under his boots.

Geralt flexed his hand and told himself it was just in preparation to unsheathe silver. 


	9. Chapter 9

“Well. That’s rather ominous.”

Indeed, if this forest had been a painting Geralt wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that two separate artists had collaborated. With questionable results. Behind them was the water and the trees, just as idyllic as it had been a mile back. Ahead of them though stood a cave the river flowed into. It looked, to put things bluntly, like a shit-hole. Or ‘Rather uninviting’ as Jasker would probably put it. Geralt had sheltered in his fair share of caves over the years and there was absolutely an hierarchy. How dry they were, how stable, whether there was anything edible inside, flora for potions, who might be waiting for him if he ventured too deep. Some caves were a welcome reprieve from the world outside. This one, with soaked interior and jagged stalactites reminiscent of a maw... it wasn’t about to earn any witcher recommendations.

Jaskier stood by the water’s edge, trying to peer inside without falling straight in. The current curved almost as soon as it passed the cave’s threshold, leaving enough solid land on the right for a man to navigate. That at least was a blessing. Logical too, given that Geralt hadn’t met too many rock trolls partial to water. It sounded as if there was a subterranean waterfall somewhere inside the system, but if it was near the entrance it was too dark for his eyes to see. Jaskier was having even less luck, peering ineffectively into a void and wrinkling his nose at some smell. Geralt set his pack on the ground, moving to lay his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Jaskier scurried out of his way and Geralt edged to take his place, one foot in shadows, the other stretched back out in the sun. Definitely a waterfall to the left. The sound of the river echoed more sharply to the right, revealing a system of dry caverns. Or at least, hopefully dryer. Leaning his head just a little farther inside, Geralt drew a deep breath—and promptly swallowed back the urge to cough. If Sage had been taken by these trolls—and if she was still alive—then she’d need healing, first and foremost.

He was just about to check his supplies for Swallow when his ears registered the sound of Jaskier rummaging through the bag. The soft clink of potion bottles and oils. Leather against leather as his dagger was moved. All the objects were treated carefully, almost reverently as they passed through his hands, but there was only so much in there. Geralt realized a second too late what Jaskier was after.

“Let’s shine a light on this situation,” he said, raising a now lit candle.

_Fuck._

The thought to move came a second after Geralt’s body had already started, throwing himself between Jaskier and the cave’s entrance. One hand instinctively grabbed his wrist, the other took hold of Jaskier’s shirt and pulled down, hoping to keep the fire from igniting any of the gas. He was too close though, the wind blowing the tiny spark forward even as Geralt worked to carry them back. The world always slowed during moments like this and he was able to watch, horrified, as red met with the slightest tint of green. Geralt was making the sign of Quen against Jaskier’s rib-cage when the explosion hit.

_Tuck and roll, Wolf._ It was Vesemir’s voice, gruff in the back of his mind. _We’re not human, but we’ve got a lot of their vulnerabilities. Keep your head and neck protected. Start smothering any flames. A bomb hits? You drop your fucking dignity and do what you’ve got to to survive_.

_It’s probably the same approach he has to bedding women,_ Eskel had whispered. The memory shone so bright that Geralt enjoyed the humor that surged through him, even as his back lit up with pain.

“ _Shit!_ Fucking Melitele’s tits—!”

He didn’t roll though. That would have exposed Jaskier to the flames still running through the air around them, feeding off of the gasses pulled out by the wind. Instead Geralt hunkered down into the dirt, nose pressed between the wet soil and Jaskier’s neck. He continued his litany of curses and Geralt welcomed them. It meant the fool was still alive.

His ears were ringing too loudly to pick up on Jaskier’s heartbeat.

They stayed like that until all the gas had burned away; until the river had smothered the few fires that had sprung up and Geralt could once again hear himself think. He moved tentatively, testing the damage. Hmm. Rather more than just survival then. Good. This was why he’d poured all his funds into armor. The usefulness of a durable, fire-resistant breastplate simply couldn't be expressed. 

No broken bones. No clothing melted into his skin. A goddamn miracle considering some of the injuries Geralt had seen in his time. The second he found that he could move freely he was up on his elbows, eyes sweeping over Jaskier’s form, searching out those same injuries. The lack of any burns or blood produced a sigh. It rattled out of Geralt, shaky as his knees.

Otherwise, Jaskier looked a right mess. He was still splayed out beneath him, clothing smeared with mud and river water, his eyes too wide in his skull. He’d been wrong before though. Over the smell of gas and char Geralt picked up the slightest whiff of blood, following it to the side of Jaskier’s neck. It looked as if one of the stones had cut him upon landing. It was a small, inconsequential nick that all at once made Geralt _furious_.

“What were you thinking?!” He grabbed hold of Jaskier’s shoulders, shaking him once against the ground. He just blinked up at him, mouth useless now that it had run out of curses.

“Not sure I was,” he finally managed. The words came out stunned. “Uh... Geralt?”

He ignored him, finding that he quite liked the solid weight between his hands. If he could hold onto Jaskier then he could just _make_ him be less of a fool. Geralt squeezed until it felt like the shirt was branded into his palms. “Don’t you know anything about survival? No hunting skills, no weaponry knowledge, but I would expect even the densest of humans to know better than to bring an open flame into a _gas-filled enclosure_!” Geralt released him to gesture sharply back at the entrance. “So much for the element of surprise! We’ll be lucky if those rock trolls haven’t fled already. Or if every monster in a three mile radius doesn’t come to investigate. None of which would have even mattered if you’d blow yourself up.” Geralt drew in breath through his teeth and then let it out in a hiss, three times in rapid succession. On the fourth he made a conscious effort to go as slow as he could manage. When he was done the tone that emerged was marginally less icy. “ _Did_ you blow yourself up?”

Jaskier’s eyes flicked down, as if he needed to check that, yes, all his limbs were still there. “No. No! Which is great. Thank you. I felt...” He bit his bottom lip, unsure. “Tingling? Which is a surprisingly lovely thing to experience when you’re expecting fire and an excruciating amount of pain.”

Geralt grunted. “Quen. Witcher’s shield.”

A damn good thing it had worked too. Geralt would bet that was the fastest he'd ever cast one and he looked forward to never trying to break that record. 

Jaskier, meanwhile, was still staring up at him. Geralt wasn’t sure how to name his expression. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen its like.

“So you cast it on... me?”

Another grunt.

“Not you?”

“No.” Obviously. Why were they having this conversation? If Geralt had any energy to spare he would have simply ended it. As it was, giving monosyllable answers with his weight held up by Jaskier felt like all he could manage. He might have survived, and witchers might heal quickly, but his back still _hurt_.

Incredibly, Jaskier was still staring. “Why not cast it on both of us?”

“Because it’s not meant to cover two people at once!” It came out a snap, and Geralt swayed under the force of his own words. Jaskier didn’t seem at all bothered though, just remained pliant underneath him, staring, thinking.

“Right,” he said slowly. “Okay. That's... okay. There's a lot for me to unpack there. But first—and I hesitate to even bring this up, I really do—but are you aware that you’ve been straddling me for the last, oh, three minutes or so?”

Geralt blinked. This time he was the one to look down, staring dumbly at his own body. He... hadn’t been aware. Except he had, obviously, just... not. He was, in fact, straddling Jaskier’s hips, his legs bent back so that they were all tangled together, hands resting lightly on his chest. There was no burn this time, just a steady warmth that had nothing to do with the remnants of fire dissipating around them. Experimentally, Geralt flexed his fingers and waited for the panic to hit.

Except he was out of panic for today. He’d spent it all on watching the idiot beneath him try to kill them both. So Geralt dared to press into Jaskier’s chest, deliberately this time, using the support to lift himself off. He managed to stand with only a twinge in his back, feeling adrift.

For once _Sorry_ didn't feel right. Like it would do more harm somehow, despite being the sort of thing humans generally wanted to hear. Geralt settled for a jerky nod of acknowledgement that, amazingly, got Jaskier to smile. That was him. The only human who could look death in the eye, previously laying atop him, and _grin_ at it. He stretched out on the dirt, adopting a laughable pose.

“You’re just full of surprises.” Then he grew somber. “Thanks though. Seriously. The whole saving my life thing? Really excellent trait of yours. I appreciate it and I’m sure the rest of the world does too. My charming personality and stunning good looks would be loss enough, but my poetry—my poetry!” Jaskier scrambled up, hands pawing at his shirt. He sighed upon finding his journal still whole. The pencils too, with the exception of one that had snapped. Jaskier held it up mournfully. “You poor, noble thing. Thank the gods I left my lute with Roach, huh? Otherwise this really would be a tragedy.”

Geralt sighed and staggered back towards the cave.

The irony was that under other circumstances he would have done precisely what Jaskier had: set the gas alight with Igni. He just would have done it at a far safer distance. Of course, he hadn’t been joking about the element of surprise. Rock trolls were sturdy creatures and if you could get the jump on them, all the better. If it came down to a fight they'd just lost their greatest advantage. He might have tried to blow the gas further in with Aard instead... but too late now. Geralt stood right at the entrance, ear cocked towards the right cavern. No movement. Either they were too far in to have heard the explosion, or they simply didn’t care.

No movement from the woods either. They’d been astoundingly lucky.

_He_ was lucky. Despite what it felt like.

On unsteady legs Geralt moved to his pack. Or rather, the remnants of it. There was no Quen or armor for this old thing and the explosion had ripped through the material, leaving little in its wake. Off to the side that godforsaken candle was melted into the rocks. His dagger was fine, if on the hot side. Geralt slid it into the sheath connected to his boot, careful to wipe away the bits of glass. Because none of his potions had survived. Carefully, down on his knees, Geralt bent and took a deep breath, trying to distinguish if any of them hadn’t mixed. There. A corner of the pack was nothing but Swallow. Geralt ripped a clean piece off and dipped the end into the little puddle of potion, trying to avoid getting river water too.

“Come here,” he said. Jaskier scrambled to his feet, wincing, but jogged over without any difficulty. Geralt watched his gait.

His fingers were nearly touching Jaskier’s neck when it occurred to him that if he wanted warning, others probably did too. So he paused, waiting until Jaskier nodded his permission. He ignored the accompanying smile.

“So I guess this falls under the head wound category then?”

Geralt continued to wrap the bit of leather around his neck, letting the portion with Swallow rest against the cut. It probably didn’t need a bandage, but he’d also seen humans die from much smaller, less sinister wounds. Illness didn’t seem to care how it entered the body and luckily Swallow was one of the few potions that worked on witchers and non-witchers alike.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

“What are you talking about? The cut is on your neck, Bard.”

“Poet,” Jaskier quipped. “And yes, I’m aware. I didn’t get knocked that hard, thanks. I just mean, you know,” he shrugged, briefly dislodging the work. He stilled when Geralt let out a low growl. “Sorry, sorry! Before is what I meant. Drowners and all. You’re... okay about touching me if it’s necessary. Check the head wound. Bind the cut. Keep me from dying a fiery death. Have I got that about right?”

Geralt had moved in close. Of course he had. He couldn’t exactly patch the idiot up otherwise. He just hadn’t consciously acknowledged the need to do that when he’d first approached. It had been natural, simple, and now that he was here Geralt could see the muscles in Jaskier’s cheek as he clenched his jaw. How his eyes were straying to anything but him. Almost as if he _wanted_ to be told he was wrong.

Well, far be it for him to pass up an opportunity like that.

“Just trying to clear things up,” Jaskier rushed to say. He’d apparently kept silent too long. “So I don’t make any—”

“No,” Geralt said.

“...No?”

“No.”

“Are you...” Jaskier pursed his lips. “Do you feel like expanding on that?”

_No_ , but he could and for whatever reason Geralt found that to be sufficient nowadays.

“Just not used to it,” he grunted, expecting Jaskier to fill in the blanks. Because they both knew he was smart, no matter the past ten minutes or what Geralt tended to say. Jaskier had seen the way others looked at him. The curses, jeers, violence dealt out by his species’ hand—despite it never ending well for them. And Jaskier knew more about witchers than most now. How... abnormal it was to receive this. Even more-so to want it. It wasn’t for the likes of him.

Yet here it was nonetheless. Geralt finished tying off the leather, letting his knuckles rest briefly against the skin of Jaskier’s neck. He was always warm, even in this weather.

In response, Jaskier leaned into the touch, just enough. Geralt watched his hand rise in full view, hesitating.

“You can say no,” Jaskier said. His lips twitched. “Again.”

But Geralt kept silent and Jaskier slipped his hand over his. Quick, like the opportunity would pass them both by. The dim part of him not awash in a background hum commanded that Geralt commit the feeling to memory.

“You _could_ get used to it, you know,” Jaskier said. His grin split his face in half, all encompassing. “I never did believe that saying about old dogs and tricks...”

_It’s for the best_ , he thought. Practical, really. There could be more gas in the cave system and thus they couldn’t risk striking another light. Jaskier couldn’t navigate that darkness either, which left Geralt to guide them both. He moved Jaskier’s hand down to his forearm, the slightest squeeze telling him to stay there. Mindful of the weight, he began the tentative work of leading them both. 

“I’m a wolf,” Geralt reminded him, right as they crossed the threshold. “Not a dog. Even if I've known plenty who would disagree. ”

Jaskier’s laugh lit up the darkness. Even so, the shadows hid Geralt’s smile.

One more thing to be grateful for and, connected, they moved forward into the cave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof this chapter was a pain in the ass to write. Still not happy with it... but you've got to post it at some point!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! My god I don't think I need to explain to anyone that things have been hectic lately. The world is on fire, all the devils are here, blah blah blah. Thus I ask, can I offer you all some witcher in these trying times?

The cave was a winding system, narrow at first, but eventually broadening as they left the river behind them. Geralt kept close to the wall and Jaskier kept close to his back. Too close at times, pressing near in a manner that had Geralt clenching his teeth, partly due to the novelty of the sensation, mostly due to the pain. He didn’t deny Jaskier the comfort though. For whatever it was worth. Now, with his ears almost back to normal and the current fading in the background, Geralt could easily hear the fluttering of Jaskier’s heart. He gave the occasional gasp when something sounded around them and Geralt found himself wondering what it was like to go entirely without sight. His eyes weren’t perfect, but he’d also never been in total darkness. Not with his mutations. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, voice dipped low. “One of the stalactites. The thinner ones will occasionally break.”

“Just creepy then,” Jaskier said, also in a whisper. His hand tightened on Geralt’s left forearm, like he was afraid that if he lost contact, even for a moment, he’d never get it back. Like Geralt might leave him there to fend for himself, flailing around in the dark. The possibility that Jaskier might think such a thing had Geralt tugging his arm closer to his side. Not pulling it away, just guiding Jaskier in a manner that he hoped conveyed... something. Whatever it was humans needed for reassurance.

Shit. When the fuck did he start caring about that?

“Probably when I was stupid enough to let you tag along.”

“What are you muttering?”

Geralt just grunted and hurried his pace.

If Vesemir could see him now he’d no doubt launch into another lecture about not getting involved. Impartiality was as dear to witchers as coin. Supposedly. Eskel at least would have probably given him a thumbs up. He’d always had an odd fondness for strays—though only of the animal variety. Still, Geralt suddenly wondered if Eskel had been the witcher on the other side of the fire that night, if he’d been the one he tried to explain things to... maybe it would have made more sense.

Last he heard, Eskel was somewhere in Kaedwen, dealing with the impressive number of wyverns there. At least, that’s what a merchant had said six months ago, eager to tell Geralt about the other witcher he’d run into during his travels, as distinctive as the White Wolf with three scars running down the side of his face. It wasn’t the worst plan. Plenty of work and depending on how much ground he covered, Eskel could easily be at Kaer Morhen before the snows hit. Not for the first time, Geralt wondered if he should do the same. Right now, that decrepit keep seemed like a luxury compared to this.

A bit of moisture dropped down from the ceiling, hitting him right between the eyes. Geralt shook the droplets away and in doing so twisted his back. He couldn’t help the soft hiss that escaped between his teeth.

“Okay. That’s enough.”

All at once Geralt’s momentum ceased, causing another twinge to run from the top of his neck down to the tops of his thighs. He turned to find Jaskier staring blindly past his shoulder, but with his feet planted firmly and his hand still gripping Geralt’s forearm. Geralt gave an experimental tug and was surprised at Jaskier’s strength. Nothing he couldn’t break, of course. Easily. But still more than he would have expected from someone playing with pens and strings all day.

“Come on,” he said. Whatever had passed between them outside the cave—Jaskier offering things Geralt hadn’t thought to ask for, shocking himself by accepting them, the laughter that had echoed and his own, small smile—was quickly dissipating. Dark and damp would do that to a person. As would stubbornness. 

He gave another tug, hard enough that Jaskier pitched forward an inch before regaining his balance. He pouted at the cave walls, his free hand wrapping protectively around his middle.

“We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“ _Something’s_ wrong. If it weren’t you wouldn’t be walking funny and grunting every few steps. Not your usual grunts either. _Painful_ grunts. If you think I haven’t learned how to speak Geralt yet than you’ve seriously underestimated my talent for language acquisition. And it’s a fair bit easier than learning Ofiri.” The last bit was said into Jaskier’s shoulder, his whole body shuddering in exaggerated offense. Geralt felt it right through his gloves. “I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay.”

The words were delivered with skill, razor sharp. Had he truly been that easy to read? Well... perhaps not to everyone. It was becoming clearer each day—with each passing hour, really—that Jaskier, as he proclaimed, had a certain knack for uncovering what Geralt would prefer to keep hidden. He supposed he should count himself lucky that the one person with a talent for unraveling his secrets was a mere bard unlikely to live half a century, given his exploits.

Funny, that as soon as the words “mere” and “unlikely” flew through his head Geralt was shrinking from his own thoughts. He didn’t particularly like imagining the fool’s demise, no matter that it was inevitable. Not so soon after he’d watched fire and gas racing towards them. Because as annoying as it was to have their journey halted, Jaskier mimicking a child in his refusal to move forward, no one other than a witcher would have done that—and only if Geralt’s injuries were a danger to them both. It was... different. Objectively a hindrance, but one that Geralt found himself tempted to indulge. There was nothing “mere” about Jaskier. No other human would have picked up on a difference in gait and tone. They wouldn’t have cared enough to learn. Not even—

Geralt stopped, staring off into the darkness. That thought, like so many others, had arrived unbidden.

Would Yen have noticed?

“Hello?” Jaskier waved his hand where he probably thought Geralt’s face was. He aimed too high. “Should I be more or less worried if you’re suddenly ignoring me again...?”

With a shake Geralt threw off those musings, not liking where they took him. Jaskier’s hand still gripped his forearm and Geralt flexed lightly against his fingers. An acknowledgment.

“I’m...” he started, only to swallow the ‘fine’ that wanted to follow it. He _was_ fine, by a witcher’s standards, but it was clear that humans had standards of their own. That was easier then. Yes. They weren’t stopping for him, but for Jaskier. Geralt had already resigned himself to doing whatever was necessary to keep him healthy and whole on this journey ...happy, even. If fawning granted him that then it was bearable.

Then another possibility occurred to him and Geralt all but sagged under the relief of it. Of course. He’d been an idiot not to see if before.

“I can still fight,” he said, warming to the knowledge as soon as he said it. “You don’t need to worry. The blast...” Geralt trailed off, trying to think how to phrase it. It may well have crippled someone else, someone not like him, and admitting to too much might scare Jaskier further. As it was, he was already making a strange, spluttering noise that didn't bode well. “It didn’t burn me,” he settled on. Which was true enough. “Not really. My armor took care of that. It’s more like a bruise. A hot bruise that’s unpleasant, but far from debilitating. I could take on five rock trolls with strength left over for a nekker nest.”

“Did you just make a _joke_?”

No?

“No.”

Geralt was sure that he should find that sigh of relief offensive. He was too tired to care though. “Good. One was enough. If you’d made two in the span of half an hour I would have had to assume you were dying, no matter what you might claim. Now take your shirt off.”

His brain went white for a moment. When Geralt came back to the cave it was to find that Jaskier had removed his hand. The loss startled him and Geralt instinctively reached forward, only managing to curl his fingers back at the last second, logic catching up.

He grit his teeth and thanked the gods he didn’t believe in that humans’ eyesight was so poor.

“What—we’re not—what are you _doing_?”

Jaskier was removing his own shirt, which was startling enough on its own, contrary to his order, which was itself inexplicable... this time Geralt did grab him, stilling his wrist before he could pull the hem up over his head. “You’ll freeze!”

“You really are out of it,” Jaskier muttered, but the look he shot off was pure indulgence. “Geralt, it’s boiling in here.”

It was. He hadn’t noticed it before, not with leather and metal covering him head to toe and the tendency to ignore temperature unless it was a threat to him. Or a traveling companion. To say nothing of the steady heat that still radiated off his back. Geralt swayed towards Jaskier, balanced against his wrist, finding that he was now the coolest thing within reach.

“Must be a hot spring" he murmured, mostly to himself. “Somewhere deeper, raising the core temperature of the cave.” Another bead of water fell onto his cheek and Geralt absentmindedly wiped it away. Moisture then, building slowly over time.

“A waterfall and a hot spring? This place sounds like paradise. Why don’t we stay for a bit?” Then Jaskier really was taking off his shirt and Geralt was powerless to stop him.

At least he wouldn’t be cold. Geralt was positively sweating now.

“Rock trolls are sentient,” he reminded him, mouth seeming to move of its own accord. His sight was serviceable in this darkness, allowing him to make out shapes and contours, though few details. Geralt caught the dip around Jaskier’s collarbone and the sweep of his rips; a spattering of darker shadow that must have been hair. Then he jerked his gaze away. “They’ve been known to cook, converse, even master crafts on occasion. They probably enjoy those aspects as much as you do.”

“Well look at me, having so much in common with monsters.”

Geralt kept his gaze firmly on the far wall, but Jaskier still existed in the corner of his eye. He bent towards the river—now no more than a stream, a trickle, just the remnants that hadn’t flowed off at the entrance—feeling his way until he found a portion with depth. Geralt watched, fascinated, as he carefully folded his shirt and pressed it into the water.

He knew what would be asked of him then. Jaskier was slow in his movements, too slow for someone with his energy and drive. He was being given time then and Geralt used it, all but grinding his teeth to dust as he thought it over.

In the end, Jaskier’s blindness tipped the scales. Geralt started removing his armor.

The outer breastplate and spaulders, the ties and joints that connected them, his gambeson—designed by Vesemir himself, over a century ago, to favor speed and movement—then finally the linen shirt underneath. Geralt couldn’t help the small hitch in his breath as the shirt was peeled away, but once he was done he found that that alone was a relief. The air on his skin was a balm, warm as it was, and Geralt sighed, sinking down into a kneeling position.

“It’s not that bad,” he said, testing the rotation of his shoulders. “Put your damn shirt back on.”

“No.”

Brat.

Jaskier knelt down beside him, leading with the makeshift towel. Geralt was thankful for it. His back bore a number of scars whose unsightly appearance was only outweighed by their unpleasant texture. Course while healing. Lumpy when they were done. A few well paid women had seen them as an exciting novelty. Or they were well-versed liars. Most just kept their hands twisted in the bed sheets. So Geralt met Jaskier halfway, ensuring that he needn't use his other hand to guide him, risking offense. Some of the tension left him then at the first touch of water. Despite the humidity, what was left of the stream remained cool.

“...thanks,” he grunted, leaning further into the ministrations. Jaskier just hummed, sponging Geralt’s back and neck with gentle, almost tentative presses.

“Jayden did this for me once,” he said, voice as soft as his touch.

“Jayden?”

“My brother.”

Geralt recalled the words Julian had spoken to Talden. Some inexcusably long name, something else about his parents, descendants... and being the second son. It was polite to prompt others in their speech, even when you couldn’t give a damn what they had to say. Geralt didn’t need to fake it though. He turned, the shirt brushing wonderfully over his right shoulder, burning now with equal parts curiosity and horror.

“There are _two_ of you?”

Jaskier laughed. It echoed strangely around the cave. “Don’t worry. He died years ago.”

“...oh.” Geralt swallowed harshly and the strokes continued.

“Really, don’t worry. You should know by now I’m an open book. I’ll talk about anything—talk about it all!—and I’d certainly never bring it up if I wasn’t comfortable. ‘Years ago’ doesn’t quite cover it. We were barely out of swaddling clothes when fever took him. I don’t even remember him terribly well... but I do recall the day we snuck away from our governess and raided the kitchen. Ah, those cinnamon rolls. I’m telling you, Geralt, that shop in Novigrad is the only place I’ve found that even comes close to doing them justice. Well, you can imagine then how tantalizing the smell was, sharp spices and sweet icing, right out of the oven. I think you would have been proud of our little heist: waiting for the cook to putter off, Jayden giving me a boost, I even remembered to grab a towel to take hold of the pan... just not that the pan was likely to topple.” Jaskier chuckled, turning to gather more water. “Horrible thing hit the length of my arm. The burn wasn’t bad by any means. Like yours, I suppose. Just red and devilishly uncomfortable, but it was like the whole world had ended. Jayden dragged me outside and under the water pump. I just sat there while he poured water over me until we’d flooded the grass and Mother found us, positively soaked. I believe she yelled something about the state of our trousers. A complaint I still hear frequently, of course, just for different reasons.” He sighed. “You know what the worst part was though?”

“Hm?”

“We lost all the cinnamon rolls to the dusty floor. What a tragedy.”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, Jaskier occasionally re-wetting his shirt, Geralt alternating between paying attention to those sensations and watching their surroundings. He could all too easily imagine it: attacked by two rock trolls he knew were nearby, without armor, swords across his knees, a companion unable to even walk properly in this darkness. If by some miracle Jaskier managed to escape it would have been his right to compose an honest ballad: how Geralt, White Wolf of the North, died of stupidity and sentimentality.

He wondered if Jaskier had ever written songs for Jayden.

As if reading his mind he spoke, voice just a whisper against Geralt’s neck. “Do you think she’s alive? Sage, I mean.”

In one ordered list Geralt’s mind weighed the question: Two rock trolls against one middle-aged woman, based on Laren’s looks. The odd nature of her kidnapping. A long trek through the woods. Gas at the entrance of the cave. And a thousand other possibilities that just highlighted how fragile humans were. How was anyone supposed to beat those odds?

Yet Jaskier had, in a way. As had Geralt, if one considered an increase in danger to match his resilience. He shouldn’t have survived that first winter on the Path. Nor that run-in with a leshen ten years back. Hell, he was never meant to survive a second round of mutations. Yet here he sat, not long after a blast might have taken him just as easily as anything else.

In the end, Geralt gave the only answer he knew to be true. “If she is dead then I’ll avenge her.”

He felt Jaskier nod. “Good. I know what it’s like to lose a sibling.”

And you couldn’t drive a sword through a fever. At least Laren could take solace in that.

By some unspoken agreement Geralt stood and Jaskier wrung out his shirt, muttering about the spiderweb of wrinkles he’d now be sporting. Water couldn’t heal his back, but it had certainly soothed it and just getting to rest for a few minutes had its benefits. Geralt replaced each piece of his armor with precision, letting out a breath once it was done.

“How much farther?” Jaskier asked.

“Not far.” It couldn’t be. Not with that stench growing stronger.

“Can I...?”

Geralt carefully took up his wrist, guiding Jaskier’s hand back to his forearm. His grip, once it found purchase, was sure. They took a few steps, re-learning how to navigate the cave together.

Jaskier stumbled a bit on the uneven surface. “You’re not going to leave me in some cave ditch because of all that, are you?”

“No.”

“Abandon me to the rock trolls?”

“No.”

“... can I be sure you’re not lying to me?”

“No.”

“Great! Same old, same old then.”

_Yes_ , Geralt thought. No matter how new, some things were still comfortably well-worn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As should be obvious by now I'm taking lots of liberties with this story. Timelines, game details, and perhaps most obviously, Jaskier's past. It's great fun to flesh things out a bit <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive! I'm counting that as a serious win given everything. Needless to say things are more than a little crazy right now and I've found myself lacking the motivation needed to write, so I apologize that this chapter is both late and a bit shorter than usual. I'm working to still get at least a little done each day and, if any of you are Geralt/Regis fans, I'm working on an epistolary fic for them as well, energy permitting. That will arrive... at some point during my lifetime :D
> 
> Hope you all are doing well. Or as well as can be expected under the circumstances <3

_Act II: The Sister_

_Witcher and Poet traversed the cave together, only one of them leading with confidence. In time though the cave changed. From the dark emerged a light, blue and ethereal, its glow both a welcome reprieve and a stunning display. When the Poet’s eyes adjusted he was astounded to see that this light moved at times, subtle shifts that drew the gaze and would not let it go. It was mystical. Magical. The sort of experience one could only have in dreams. The fact that he stood beneath such a phenomenon, wide awake, was a testament to the astounding variety that life had to offer._

_“They’re worms,” the Witcher revealed and for the first time the Poet was glad that he’d had so little to eat._

“ _Worms_?” Jaskier breathed. He looked up and Geralt knew precisely what he was thinking: the light’s beauty was now tainted by the knowledge that it was made from a wiggling, slimy mass. He let out a huff, shaking his head.

“You humans. What difference does it make?”

“All the difference! Worms are...they’re...”

Jaskier could navigate the cave safely now and had dropped Geralt’s arm a few meters back, giving him a quick pat on the wrist that Geralt had been unable to make up his mind about. Whether it had felt comforting or patronizing—like he’d been a good hound sent back to his kennel. But now Jaskier made good use of his freed limbs, waving his hands between the two of them before settling on a squeezing motion that, to be frank, looked more akin to some poor bastard being strangled than him dealing with worms. The display didn't match the subject. Perhaps it was for the best that he hadn't been drawn to acting. 

“There are no words,” Jaskier said, squeezing with the air of a man trying to draw blood from a stone. “No words to properly describe precisely how disgusting they are. And you know I speak the truth because otherwise I have the talent to describe anything I please, thank you. Hey. If I suddenly threw an apple at you—gods. Apples. What I wouldn’t do to have an apple right now. I'd kill a man that's for certain—but if I threw one would you be able to slice through it? With your sword, I mean. Of course your sword. Unless you've got some more knives hidden away that I don't know about." 

Geralt was hungry too, still hurting, nose scrunched at the horrible, rancid stench that now seemed to fill every corner of the cavern. It took him a few deep breaths through his mouth to sift through all that. Worms? Apples? Knives? Sometimes the logic of Jaskier's thoughts escaped him. Most of the time, truly. 

Still: "Yes." 

"Excellent. So if one of those worms were to suddenly drop down from the ceiling you would absolutely slice through the bastard before it landed on your poor traveling companion, yes?" 

Geralt bit into his lower lip. "Perhaps." 

"Now wait just a—" 

"Quiet!" 

Jaskier snapped his mouth shut, clearly startled by the command. He wrinkled his nose though, now catching a whiff of the scent that had bothered Geralt for the last ten minutes. Jaskier's eyes rose to the worms still swaying peacefully above their heads, then to his underarm, none too subtly checking his own stench. Geralt ignored the theatrics and motioned for Jaskier to keep any commentary to himself. He'd thought he'd heard... 

There. Conversation. 

Of a sort, anyway. 

"When not much sweet salt add. Lots!" 

"Gone salt. Leave. Tog salt with, high sun, then... no salt. But Tog yes." 

"Logg _know_ Tog yes." 

Geralt briefly rested his head against the stone and closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. He'd only dealt with rock trolls a few times while on the Path but each had been... eventful. When he opened his eyes again it was to find Jaskier, mouth agape, a comical look of surprise mixed with confusion spreading over his face. He shook himself like a dog shedding water and scurried to Geralt's side, leaning close. Geralt was able to read the intention in his movements and thus didn't shove the bard away. When Jaskier stopped just an inch from his ear and warm breath trickled his skin, Geralt managed to keep still. Just. 

"Talking that doesn't sound like talking," Jaskier whispered, echoing Talden's words. "What are they saying?" 

Geralt couldn't resist. "What happened to your impressive language acquisition?" His own voice was barely above a breath, the two of them still nearly nose-to-nose. 

"Haha. You're just hilarious today. Still, care to fill me in before they notice we're here and I become their very tasty lunch? If I have to die I'd prefer to do it looking my best and knowing all there is to know. Sadly I can only manage one of those right now." He stared reproachfully down at his wrinkled shirt. 

In truth a rock troll's hearing wasn't particularly keen. Perhaps only slightly above a human's. They were fine where they were, hidden behind the cave's turn, voices masked by the trolls' own loud, winding conversation. They might have stepped apart. 

Geralt didn't move. 

"I fear you'll be disappointed. I've heard more stimulating conversation from babes. There are two, like we thought, a Tog and a Logg." 

"I caught that, thank you. Ah. Such sophisticated names." 

"Says the man whose mother named her boys Jaskier and Jayden." 

"...point taken. Well, from what little I've gathered," Jaskier tilted his head, nose wrinkling as he tried to work through the syntax. "There's some great food drama underway? Hmm. So I _will_ be eaten. Or—" His face suddenly stilled, all the teasing humor draining away. "Oh gods. Sage?" 

Geralt shook his head. "I can hear another." There was someone breathing, soft and further back, barely audible. "But yes. It appears that they're in the process of cooking something and Tog, who saw the salt sometime this morning, can no longer find it." 

Jaskier let out a breath, sagging forward. It took him nearly to Geralt's chest and the warmth of the cave, the burn of his back, having another just a hair's breadth away... Geralt felt like he was the one cooking from the inside out. All at once he did want to move away. Simply because he _needed_ to. 

"So she's alive?" Jaskier asked. 

Geralt swallowed around a dry throat. "Perhaps." 

"'Perhaps.' You're incorrigible. And terrible for my health. Can't you provide a straight answer for once in your ancient life?" Jaskier sighed when none came. "Of course not. So what now?" 

"Now we bargain." 

"Bargain?" 

Geralt finally stepped back, the space simultaneously a loss and a relief. He pushed the odd feeling aside. Right out of his head, out of the cave even, until Jaskier was only a body in need of protection, no different from any other civilian getting in his way. He was safe for now though and thus Geralt was able to turn his back on that human, nameless, just a piece of the scenery, attention focused on the enemy ahead. His eyes shone gold, startling among all the blue. Geralt laid a hand on his sword but did not draw it from its sheath. Not yet. 

With Jaskier's panicked whispers growing muffled behind him, he stepped out from behind the corner. 

"Greetings." 

A single word. He didn't offer any more. It was enough though. Tog and Logg both whirled at the sudden invasion, the former nearly toppling as he tried to regain his balance. They were, all things told, normal rock trolls. Hardly considered beautiful by any species' standards, they towered a head above Geralt, bodies bulbous and sharp. Their natural armor combined with their size made them formidable foes, particularly if they decided to attack together. He hadn't lied to Jaskier before. He could take on a number of them if it came to that, for creatures of this size were not known for their speed and rock trolls, in particular, were not known for their strategy. Beating them would be a matter of patience and endurance. Entirely doable for a witcher this long on the Path, even an injured one. 

None of which meant he wanted to do that. 

Geralt slowly circled the room they stood in, observing the fire that was set between them, the small pot cooking above the flames, the slit of light that shone down from above. At least they wouldn't suffocate from smoke. It was still hot. Made hotter by the cooking fire. Geralt took in the flames and felt an answering twinge in his back. Otherwise the room was small and the floor scattered with bits of rock—bits of _them_ —that would serve as a dangerous obstacle should a fight ensue. 

How lucky. 

Slowly, Geralt raised and spread both hands. Empty palms. It was a gesture of peace among all but the sorceresses. 

"Tog?" Geralt asked, looking to the one on the right. The troll cocked his head to the side, not unlike a curious child. The contrast between him and Lin though, or even Talden, was as striking as it was surprising. Logically, the gesture should not have read as threatening. It did. 

"Human Tog know how?" 

_Fifty-fifty shot in the dark._ What Geralt said though was, "Human smart," drawing an appreciative nod from Logg. "Except I'm not a human. I'm a witcher. And," Geralt said, raising his hands higher when they both gave guttural warnings. "I can help you." 

Logg took a step forward. It made the ground shake. "How help? Witchy no-human troll no help." 

"Sometimes we do. Trollololo? I got him some paint once. Si-Si? She lives beneath a bridge I helped her build. I know your kind shares stories whenever you cross paths. Even if you haven't heard of me, we witchers are very good at fulfilling contracts. It's our job. Not monster hunting. Not technically. Just fulfilling agreements. So we can put aside any assumptions about how the three of us are supposed to interact and make our own rules from here on out, okay?" 

It was a bit too much for them. Tog in particular. Geralt watched them shuffle and blink through the information, trying to process his speech just as Jaskier had tried to work through theirs. As if summoned by his thoughts, Geralt heard the soft tread of boots behind him and watched as Logg crouched down into a defensive position. Tog stared dumbly. In an instant Geralt was between Jaskier and the two of them, hands still raised between them both. He didn't trust the rock trolls not to attack if they felt threatened. He could say the same for Jaskier. 

"Easy. He's with me." 

"Yeah," Jaskier said. "I'm with him." His voice carried only a small twinge of fear through it and Geralt felt an answering surge of pride. Most humans would have run at the sight of two trolls, perhaps even fainted—not stepped into the shadows with them. Geralt didn't know if it was Jaskier's experience with monsters that gave him that boldness, or simply faith that he would be protected if it came to that. Either way, when he skittered over and pressed himself comfortably against Geralt's side, Geralt let him. 

"You with?" Logg confirmed. Geralt nodded. 

"Care no why you with!" 

"You might care if I can find you that salt you want." Geralt spread his arms, looking around the cave. "Only so many places it could have ended up and if I do find it," he pointed behind the two trolls to the darkness untouched by the fire, feeling Jaskier's soft gasp as he began to make out the shape among the shadows. "I want her as payment." 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you all like to know what the biggest threat to your writing time is? It's not your job. Or exhaustion. Or the pervading horror that you're living through a pandemic that saps all creative energy. It is, without a doubt, fucking ANIMAL CROSSING: NEW HORIZONS
> 
> Readers: Clyde, why in the world haven't you written in a month?  
> Me: Because I need money to build bridges, next question

Geralt had spoken the truth to Jaskier, about rock trolls and the perception of intelligence. He truly believed that every species, from the highest king to the lowest fox in its den, had something to offer the world. Even monsters. After all, he didn't possess the hunting instincts of a bruxa. Or the formation tactics of a nekker swarm (something that witchers, centuries after their discovery, were still trying to predict in a teachable manner). As early as ten Geralt had known such thoughts were abnormal. What was a witcher without his hatred of monsters? It was another, endless difference between him and his brethren. The Bear and the Griffin students he occasionally encountered on the Path simply cutting through what, at times, Geralt would have preferred to let live. He wasn't sure why it mattered to him. Vesemir was right that there was no logic in such a choice. It lost him coin, lost him credibility, and was quite likely to result in a pitch-fork pointed at his throat. Which was better, to simply kill the beast or to kill the people in self-defense when they riled against you? And what good did it do to spare something the world had already decided to hate? 

Then again, the same could be said of him. Geralt could no more justify his own existence than anyone else's, so what right did he have to decide another's fate? Provided they were not a threat he was happy to watch such payments pass him by. He could deal with the hunger and the whispers with equal fortitude. 

Still, it was... nice to find that he wasn't the only one with such a perspective. Among humans, anyway. 

Jaskier was making friends with the rock trolls. 

"I need a good adjective. A descriptor, you see. It's—right. This rock? It's gray. And hard. And about the size of my palm. Normally I'd be far more poetic but I'm getting the sense that you two need to start with the basics. Which feels like an insult to the basics, but such is life. Now, that's a descriptor. So if you had to give one for him...?" 

"Big." 

"Good! Big how?" 

"Big-big." 

"That's... very well. Alright. Never let it be said that I snubbed my nose at innovation. After all, repetition and alliteration are the lifeblood of poetry. Geralt! I'm being kind to you, my good man, and describing your arms as "big-big" rather than the empty space between your ears." 

Geralt grunted. 

"Witchy-witch speak no good." 

"Oh I _know_ , Logg, he's just terrible sometimes. Getting him to speak at times is like trying to nail pudding to a tree. Ah! Now see, that was an analogy. Did you follow it?" 

"... pudding?" It was the first word Tog had spoken in nearly half an hour, too busy staring at Jaskier's hair and occasionally running one massive finger through the strands. Jaskier seemed to have grown used to it. Geralt was briefly distracted by the length, now down over the tops of his ears. He'd need a haircut soon. 

"It's a food. A type of dessert. The texture is a bit hard to describe. Sort of jiggly, but silky too. Delicious, is what I'm saying." 

"Like worm?" 

"No, _not_ like worms. Tog I swear by all the gods, kings, and artists of the world, if you've added worms to our lunch..." 

Their bickering continued, Jaskier working through his repertoire of gestures to convey precisely how little he liked the creatures hanging above their heads—either in general or in his food—though he never moved so much as to jostle Sage. One hand remained splayed against her collarbone, holding her steady with her head in his lap. It was such a casual touch, Jaskier clearly unaware of how naturally he managed his space to accommodate her. Geralt had been staring since they'd all settled down. 

He'd found the salt. Out of all the contracts Geralt had taken over the years, this one had by far been the easiest. The small bag was tucked into the opposite corner of the room, its color blending in with the other rocks, but its smell more than strong enough for him to follow. Really, he might have criticized the exchange in another. Misplaced salt for a human life? Not exactly the fairest deal he'd ever struck. Yes, unfair... if it weren't for the fact that they'd kidnapped and no doubt traumatized the poor woman in the first place. 

He wasn't above a bit of swindling. Not today. 

Jaskier, it seemed, wasn't even interested in the exchange. No sooner had Geralt made the offer than he was scuttering across the room, keeping all three of them in sight and sticking as close to Geralt as possible. The movements of someone who regretted having decided to move at all, but still. He'd gone. A human leaving a witcher's side and closing the distance with rock trolls, all so he could bend and press two fingers to the neck of a stranger. The relieved laugh Jaskier had let out upon finding a pulse had kick-started Geralt's heart. All three of them were beating. It was more than he dared hope for on even the best of days. 

Rock trolls didn't have hearts of the physical variety. Metaphorically though they possessed more than the man who had put them up to this. 

"Jaskier," Geralt said now, watching as he paused in the act of playfully slapping Logg's shoulder. He wasn't even sure why he'd called him, only that Geralt preferred that he not ripple any waters. It wasn't that he feared violence from Logg and Tog—they'd proven that wasn't a risk these last fifteen minutes—but seeing him relaxed with Sage tucked against him was an image Geralt wasn't willing to let go of easily. Not after the unknowns of the woods. Discourteous greetings. Fire soaring right above him, only Geralt there to lessen the blow. He saw these things within each blink, a stupid, endless cycle he tried to break by staring at the fire until his eyes went dry. 

Jaskier pouted. "What?" 

Nothing. What was he supposed to say? He had nothing to offer that didn't sound insane, paranoid, or both. "Lunch is ready." 

Luckily, fate didn't prove him a liar. Right at that moment the pot above the fire started to bubble, causing the three who guarded it to lean forward in anticipation. The rocks that made up Logg and Tog's bodies started shifting, creating a grinding that was hard on the ears, and Jaskier's fingers dug deep into the cloth of Sage's shirt, revealing the need behind the childish excitement. It had been too long since they'd eaten. In seconds Geralt spotted and retrieved the two crude bowls off to the side of the room and had divvied up a brimming portion for Jaskier and half that for himself. Tog snatched up the pot, unaffected by the heat, and took a few gulps before Logg tore it from his hands. They started passing it back and forth after that with all the rivalry of siblings. 

"Eat it slowly," Geralt warned, just as Jaskier was about to start chugging himself. He sat beside him, ignoring the glare. "Better a few sips you can manage than a bowlful you throw back up." 

"I've come to hate you being sensible," he said. Still, Jaskier lifted the bowl calmly this time only to pause again, the agony of it visible in his tongue tracing his lips. "Should she...?" 

Geralt shook his head, glancing at Sage. "She's likely to choke if you try feeding her. Drink your fill. We'll save her some for when she wakes." 

It was all the encouragement Jaskier needed. Or the last bit of self restraint he could stand. His face disappeared behind the bowl and Geralt watched, fascinated, as his throat worked through three sips before he pulled back, grimacing at the taste. " _Gods_. This is simultaneously the best and the worst thing I've ever eaten. Do I want to know what's in this?" 

Taking a taste himself, Geralt decided on no. Not for the first time he wished that his bag had survived the explosion. A decoction wouldn't have been remiss to ensure that Jaskier didn't become sick from this collection of... suspicious ingredients. 

"Your face just answered my question," Jaskier muttered, even while taking another gulp. Food was food, a lesson it seemed his companion had already learned. All the better. "Thank you two for sharing. I can't claim it's better than the salad I had this morning, but beggars cannot be choosers and so forth. To be honest I thought you'd want to eat _me_ for lunch, so this is an incredible improvement on my assumptions, let me tell you." 

Logg's mouth unhinged in a comical display of shock, revealing a blackened tongue and masticated bits of food. Even Geralt found the sight repulsive and he knew for a fact that he'd looked worse. "Eat no stringy boy human! Smack-smack goes bones no meat. Yeck." 

Jaskier's thumb rose to point at Logg. "Should I be insulted by this?" 

"That they _don't_ want to eat you?" 

"Well yes! I'll have you know that I taste simply divine. Or so I assume. After all, there's a young boy in the village you terrorized who has dubbed me 'chicken.'" 

"Haven't we just established how trustful your assumptions are?" 

"Oh piss off." 

"Chicken," Tog repeated, gnashing his teeth so that bits of soup ran down his chin. 

This was better. Everyone seated, his sword within reach, simple words and food to fill their stomachs—even bad food. Geralt was no chef, but he wouldn't have bet on that salt having made any difference. 

It had made a difference to their hosts' temperament though. No sooner had Geralt pulled the prize from between the rocks then Logg and Tog had moved from wary, coiled with aggression, to welcoming with almost open arms. The trick of looking carefully around a room was like magic to them and they clearly cared more for their few, meager possessions than the woman they'd acquired. Jaskier had been able to drag Sage back to Geralt without incident, hands flitting worriedly around her face where, next to the firelight, he could see the yellow tint to her lips and eyelids. 

Poisoned, as he'd suspected, though thankfully the dose hadn't been fatal. If it had she would have been dead a day ago. A few lungfuls was enough to make one ill, incapacitated, as seemed to be the case when Geralt lifted her arm and it fell without waking her. Her eyes moved behind those lids though and the muscles in her thighs twitched periodically. Bending close, he'd caught a whiff of a single scent that helped clarify the image in his mind. 

Rose water. 

There was little Geralt could do for her without access to supplies. Until they were back in the village, the most they could offer Sage was comfort and a silent promise to get to the bottom of whatever had led her to this fate. 

Geralt chugged more of his serving—his body was used to hunger and acclimated to keeping whatever he fed it down—before setting the bowl aside with a definite 'click.' Apparently that social cue read across species because Tog and Logg paused in their bickering, the latter reminding the former that they were supposed to save some for the sleeping human. Geralt let his hand tread lightly over the sword in his lap, its position mirroring Sage's in Jaskier's. 

"Thank you," he said, speaking slow. Beside him Jaskier jerked in surprise. "We appreciate the food and we've made our trade. The salt," he reminded Tog who'd begun making a confused gurgling noise in the back of his throat. The reminder of food had him reaching back for the pot where he had his hand slapped away by Logg. "It is appreciated and we will leave if you ask us to... but I'd like to return to your earlier claim of innocence." 

Out of the corner of his eye Geralt watched Jaskier's free hand tighten protectively in Sage's shirt, pulling her closer to his stomach, body instinctively hunching to help protect her head. It shocked him for a moment, this tenderness shown to a stranger. Someone he'd never even spoken to. 

_But he did it for you_ , Geralt's thoughts reminded him. Always sounding like damn Vesemir. _This is the man who approached a witcher in the corner of an inn, asking for his opinion. He wanted your company even when he knew what you were. Why shouldn't he want Sage's, especially in comparison?_

Geralt grit his teeth. There was no comparison. She was an unconscious victim. He, a witcher on the job—and he was wasting time. 

"Innocence," Logg said slowly, nodding with each syllable of the word. He licked the remains of the soup from his teeth before spitting what he'd accumulated onto the ground. Jaskier made a dainty lean away from it. "Tog Logg no bad trolls. What do human says! Good?" 

"Depends on the human. Depends on what they ask you to do." 

He took what was left in his bowl, forcing it down with two quick swallows and a grimace. When he was done Geralt held the crude bit of wood in one hand, testing its weight. There was heft to it. One edge sharp enough to cut fair skin. If you sealed it over another's mouth they would suffocate. Slowly, but inevitably. Geralt held an object that had just nourished him and made it clear, through expression and poise alone, that he now held a weapon. 

Luckily for the rock trolls, that skill wasn't leveled at them. 

"Tell me again what Roger ordered you to do." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternate take on this chapter: 
> 
> Tog: Want salt for food!  
> Jaskier: Oh, I'm FULL of salt. Where do you think all my best songs come from?   
> Geralt: Jaskier, no


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive! For everyone still bothering to read this story: I am so very sorry for the unexpected, months long hiatus. If I'm offering an excuse it would be something along the lines of: "This summer I had to devote nearly all my time to finishing my dissertation, successfully passed my defense (!!!!!), and then crashed hard, unable to write anything else." I'm trying to rekindle the time and energy needed for fic writing, so thank you in advance for bearing with me 💜

_Let me tell you a story._

_Once upon a time—as all good stories must start—two women traveled together on the road to Cintra. It wasn't much of a road. No more than flattened grass in places, the occasional remnant of others who'd passed through. There was a fortunate lack of monsters though, scared off by stronger humans with knives and well-aimed bows. The women were strong too, though they knew nothing of fighting. Not unless you counted the single punch thrown when one was nine and the shove another dished out in her twenties. Not much to speak of for some, but they could travel long distances on that alone, if it came to it. If they were smart. They were resourceful and, above all, they had each other._

Sisters, _they said, whenever someone asked. Words held power and this particular word was a charm they carried with them. Using it opened doors to homes or taverns, or even just a barn. It let them hold hands in the presence of others and receive only indulgent smiles. Once, after getting drunk off cheap booze and the night sky, one kissed the other fervently. It was a kiss on the cheek, of course, because that's what sisters did and if this particular one happened to travel a little too close to her mouth... what of it? It was beautiful out, hazy, and the first to claim they weren't a sloppy drunk would be the next to find a drink._

_They traveled like this for some time, never staying for long, always trying to leave a good impression behind them. Cintra grew closer and with it the promise of a city's anonymity. Who cared for two sisters in a sea of bodies, each doing what it had to survive? Should the neighbor see something through the window, or the laundress discover some secret... what of it? Such knowledge rarely brought food to the table and exposing it was often as dangerous to the blackmailer as it was the victim. Associations carried great weight in a political climate and thus were, to an extent, reassurance. You go about your life, we'll go about ours. And who knows, maybe they'd even meet someone with a similar life to share..._

_The news of Cintra's fall may as well have been a physical blow. It felled the sisters and suddenly the prospect of seeking out another city was too daunting to consider. How much farther was the next? How long would it stand? There were kingdoms aplenty across the Continent, but only so far that four legs and meager savings could carry them. One had the ache in her knees that Mother always complained about. The other grew faint if she spent too long in the sun. Both had some gray in their hair. Young enough for judgement, but not so young to survive this world without help. They were used to such things and, more importantly, had the presence of mind to accept them. Huddling together they shared the unshakable feeling that if they went too far—continued to push their luck—that one day it would run out entirely._

_So when they met a kind old man and his even kinder son, they both appeared as a blessing. They lived in a little town not too far from here. Well, no. Not a_ town _exactly._ _Far too small for that, but will you begrudge them that term? We're simple. And struggling. Aren't you struggling too? There's a small hut abandoned since its owner passed on and you're welcome to fill it, provided you pull your own weight. The offer of permanent shelter was more than they'd hoped for. Companionship? A miracle._

This is what we wanted to avoid, _one of the sisters said, rubbing her sleeve between thumb and forefinger. The fabric had long since begun to disintegrate._ Are you sure we should settle here? 

_The other sister was quiet for a long while. Then she shrugged._ "Are you sure we have a choice?" 

_They examined their empty pockets, the rapidly retreating game as Fall approached, and decided that no, they probably didn't._

_The council had to officially agree to their move. Though "council," like "town," was quite the generous term. Three men sat with mugs and full bellies, talking about how two more mouths to feed was quite the danger during these times. Still, the sisters had strong arms to help with a harvest, should they ever get the seeds and soil needed for one. They seemed capable, self-sufficient, and more than willing to do what others might deem necessary._ Not bad to look on either, _one of the men said and the other two nodded, expectant._

_He hadn't bothered to keep his voice down. The sister who bore the brunt of his gaze might have flinched... if she hadn't heard such comments since her thirteenth year. Like a well-made ship at sea, she knew how to weather them._

Just the alcohol talking, _the second whispered and for a brief, hidden moment they clasped hands._ It will pass. We have to let it pass. 

_They did, they moved in, and for a time things were as good as either had a right to hope for. After all, they still had each other. That, even more than a measly dinner or a hole-ridden roof, was something to be grateful for._

_Which wasn't to say that life didn't provide luxuries now and again. The sisters found themselves smitten with the children of the town, particularly a rambunctious boy who acted first and considered consequences later. (This included, they feared, befriending them.) A feral cat approached them once, a mangy thing that hissed and clawed the air before a bit of food got her to settle. She only stayed a few days but in that time they named her—Maura, for a long-dead grandmother who, one sister claimed, spit and yowled in just the same manner—and hoped that, wherever she was now, she was living her best cat life. They discovered that this patch of land sported fewer mosquitoes at dusk, though no one could tell them why. Their new home had cutlery in it, chipped and stained, but more serviceable than the skirts they'd grown used to eating off of. There was a river nearby that they could sneak off to, under the guise of retrieving water, nature's babble hiding whatever sounds they desired to make. There were rocks by this river that made for pretty gifts and plenty of flora for dying what wool they could get their hands on._

_Including the rose bush._

_She found it while out foraging, as all of them were expected to do, and for just a moment the red against all the gray-green of this world took the sister's breath away. It was sacrilege to defile such beauty, but she did it anyway, because the woman back home deserved those roses more than some old bush did. She piled them high in her arms, heedless of crushing the petals. She had plans beyond a superficial beauty that would fade within days._

_Looking back, the sister sometimes wondered if she'd cursed them. After all, Mother had told her stories of foolish women who stole from spirits, the fae, bog hags, nymphs, fairies, a shape-shifting dragon... the creatures would change but the moral remained constant: be on the lookout for anything unnatural in the world and never,_ ever _touch it. To do so invited the thing into your soul and from there you would spread it throughout your community. Keep your head down, child, and call a witcher._

_As if they had the coin to pay for that. Or the luck for one to come stumbling through this area. The sister had nothing against their kind, but she did trust her head more than fireside tales. She preferred to carry it high, thank you, and thus walked back home with the light tread of someone who'd done nothing wrong._

_Isn't that how all the tales start? With naivety?_

_She was alone that afternoon and quite grateful for it. The roses were dumped on the counter and the last of their water was put over the fire to boil. It was a simple enough matter to strip the flowers of their color and scent, straining it into a jar for long-term use. She presented it to her sister that night and was offered the privilege of dabbing a bit of the rose-water onto her neck. From then on she was the loveliest in town. Not that she hadn't been before, but now everyone else knew it too._

_Again, hadn't Mother taught her that fools were only fools in hindsight?_

_It seemed that no sooner had she applied the gift than the heavens opened up to allow everything that threatened them through. Literally, given that a storm across many days ruined what few crops they'd now grown, sending all of them further into the woods, each excursion growing longer, more dangerous. Reports of monsters were whispered over meals. Great hulking beasts had been spotted a stone's throw from their home, daring to inch closer each day even as they ventured further. The sisters stopped foraging. The council was called and if they had any wisdom to offer, they didn't share it. The days grew colder and tempers, it seemed, grew shorter. Now the sisters' privacy was viewed with suspicion. Now, mere looks turned into action._

I told you, _the sister hissed one night, holding a rag to the wound on her arm._ We should have pressed on. We know better than to settle for this. 

Did you wish for death instead? _She pursed her lips at the three scratches made by ragged nails scrambling for purchase. The old man had grown arrogant over the last six months. Bold and greedy, he edged closer each day until the rose-water sank into his furs and clung there, marring the sister's gift. She would have taken the bottle and smashed it, had it not still been beloved by the one it was meant for._

_As if reading her thoughts, the sister ran a hand down her neck, settling._ Of course not, _she sighed._ I only wish things were easier. 

Don't we always. _It was a hard truth they'd both learned young._

Come now. I didn't mean to upset you. He won't act, sis. _Her mouth curved into a smile, secrets hidden there._ He's too much of a coward. I know his kind and they're dangerous, yes, but only if you don't stand your ground. You're right—we're much safer here. 

_She probably made some quip about always being right. If she did, it was one more mark against her because the very next day words were exchanged, bargains were struck, and her sister disappeared._ Run off, _they told her._ Probably findin' better things with some paramour _. Every claim left a new crack in her teeth and it was only by will alone that she kept the term "sister" in her vocabulary. With it they would not help her, but at least they wouldn't hurt her either._

_Could they though? Hurt her now? As another day passed and her bed remained empty, she found she was no longer sure._

You could do with a witcher, _her Mother's voice mocked and Laren cried herself to sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Yfere who called this all the way back in Chapter Four :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have failed spectacularly at updating faster! Have this chapter as an ironic apology.

Over the course of the story Geralt had kept his eyes on Jaskier's hands, watching how they twisted between one another, or gifted Sage with caresses she wasn't able to feel. Back and forth, one then the other. Comfort. Worry. Comfort again. Halfway through the tale those hands had gone still before shooting out to raise each of Sage's sleeves. There they found the deep scratches on her forearm. They'd been made by hands larger than Jaskier's own and had strength enough to draw blood. They could have been Geralt's hands. He folded them over his sword and finally looked away. 

"She told you all this?" 

Logg nodded. A tiny bit of rock fell and rolled to a stop near Jaskier's knee. "Awake girl human talk talk talk then cough cough cough no wakey. Logg and Tog no want. Want food. For food human listen. Stew no salt now salt but girl too." He gave a very 'what are you going to do?' gesture and not for the first time Geralt was struck by how _human_ they appeared. Or maybe humans were surprisingly like rock trolls. The decent ones, anyway. 

Another glance at Jaskier showed that he was putting the tip of his nail between his teeth, a gesture of thought Geralt had never seen from him before. Perhaps he wouldn't again because Jaskier seemed to realize precisely how much dirt had accumulated there and turned to spit. He set about cleaning them instead, forming each of his words with great care. 

"Okay," he said. Then again: "Okay. Sage and Laren arrive here, trying to hide the fact that they're... intimate, shall we say, in one of the many ways that we may use such a term. They settle in, make a few friends, and at least one enemy by the sound of things. I was right then, wasn't I?" Jaskier bared his teeth, feral in the fire's shadows. "Roger?" 

"Roger," Geralt confirmed. A deep hum from Tog was the third, affirmative voice. "The blood under his nails. The rose-water. To seep the smell so deep into his furs..." He must have been all over her. Persistent. Violently tactile. Geralt tried to imagine taking that from anyone—from Jaskier—and had to bite down on a growl. "She spurned his advances—" 

"Who'd _want_ his advances?" 

"—and so he made use of you in revenge." 

"Human give salt for girl!" Tog cried, snatching up what was left of the meal and downing it in a single gulp. No one tried to stop him. It wasn't as if Sage was waking to take her share. Jaskier leaned closer, pulling her with him. The three became a strange amalgamation of limbs as he turned his back on the trolls, seeking some semblance of privacy. 

"Forgive my ignorance, Geralt—which I'm sure you'll bring up at a later date—but are we honestly suggesting that... what?" Fingers drummed against Sage's bare arm, a thigh shifted beneath her back. "Some nobody out in the woods orchestrated a kidnapping because she rejected him? Do you have any idea how many women have rejected me? More than I care to admit to, and I'd ask that you keep that little bit of gossip to yourself, but I have never resorted to setting monsters on someone over a failed dalliance. That's insane. Absurd. Drama of the highest order and though I am impressed with it to a certain extent who _does that_? I hardly trusted the man to be decent, but this..." 

Jaskier's voice trailed off, eyes wide and searching. Geralt couldn't remember a time when he'd had that much faith in others. It should have disgusted him, that naivete, but instead he was just tired. Tired of barely edible stew, a smarting back, and the eyes of a bard who couldn't believe a man would stoop so low when Geralt had seen far, far worse. 

"What's the first rule of combat?" he asked. Jaskier blinked. "What's the one thing you must never forget, no matter if it's a brawl or an all out war?" 

"Well, how the deuce should I know? Do I look like a man who fights with anything other than his wits?"

He did, strange as that was to admit. Jaskier had done an admirable job of keeping himself primped and pampered given the circumstances, but even he could only do so much against the hardships of the Path. His hair had grown long and his whiskers needed a shave, though the color was fine enough not to draw much notice. Both their boots were soiled and though Geralt's armor was meant for such weathering, the flimsy shirt Jaskier wore had taken a beating. Due in no small part to him—wrinkled and mussed from using it as a makeshift bandage. He looked roughened, cheeks pink from the sun and lightly sunken from lack of food. Geralt found himself tracing the curves there and marveling at their familiarity. 

Then Jaskier moved and the present snapped back into place. 

"First and only rule you need," Geralt said. " _Don't_ underestimate your opponent. It doesn't matter what a man looks like, or how sweet his smile might be. They're all capable of the worst acts you could think up, Bard, given the right circumstances." 

"Poet," he said absently. "Hmm. After a moment's thought I do recall some rather ordinary men who tried to feed me to drowners over a diddy." Geralt grunted. "Great!" Jaskier clapped his hands, mocking. "So the first haven we stumble upon is run by a lunatic. Fantastic. Sublime. The Path is such a treat. Now tell me, dear witcher, what exactly are we going to do about it?" 

Geralt stood, giving his back a tentative stretch. Muscles pulled at aching skin and he bit down on a hiss. The pain may have hardened his words more than he intended. "Nothing." 

" _Nothing?_ " 

"It's not in the contract," he said, fixing Jaskier with a stare. "We were tasked with finding Sage. We have. We made a deal to secure her. We honored that deal. Task complete." 

"Hardly!" Jaskier cried. "Yes, Sage is safe. Well done us. Or as safe as she can be while still comatose from _poisoning_." He jerked and Sage's whole body twitched like a rag doll's. "You'd just leave her like this? All of them? Sage, Laren, Lin, Talden, even Yoven? If that man's guilty of anything it's willful ignorance, but that doesn't mean we just leave him and everyone else to Roger's will. What the fuck do you think he's going to do when he realizes that Sage is alive?" 

Geralt shrugged. It generated another flash of pain. "We'll return her to Laren. The rest is up to them. Yoven said he'd replace Roger in a few years. Perhaps he can provide a better home for these people." 

"Do you hear yourself? A few _years_?" 

"It's the most I can offer them." 

"Bullshit!" 

"Then what!" 

Geralt had crossed the space between them in an instant, before he'd made the conscious decision to do so, and to Jaskier's credit he stayed where he was after the initial, instinctual flinch. "What would you have me do? Kill him? Bloody my sword on your order? Plenty have wanted a pet witcher to do their bidding. Do you?" 

Yellow eyes stared down into blue. Blunt teeth ground in frustration while Geralt's lips pulled back, revealing canines sharpened to a deadly point. Both of them shook for similar reasons, though only one had learned how to hide it. 

"Fuck off," Jaskier hissed. "You know I don't. I just want something. _Justice_." 

"And what does that look like?" 

The silence stretched and when Jaskier bit his lip, when he looked away, it was clear he had no answer, not that Geralt expected one. After all, he'd been searching for such a solution since he'd set out on the Path. What was justice? Not the executions ordered by kings, nor the stonings meted out by peasants. Both parties could raise their hands in violence and name it justice, leaving everyone else plotting some justice of their own. Was it locking Roger away? With what resources? Was it telling his people and leaving, washing his hands of whatever they might decide in his stead? Geralt had tried it all. Some monsters were allowed to run off into the night, dropped on the doorsteps of aldermen, or had their throats slit on his blade. There was little satisfaction in any of these choices. That required a level of arrogance Geralt hoped he never possessed. He was just a witcher. A problem solver. Neutral. 

No one neutral ever got to decide what was just. 

Nor a poet shadowing a monster of his own. At least Jaskier was able to admit that in his silence and the hard line of his jaw. For all his confidence, he was a more humble man than most. 

"It's time to go," Geralt said, working to soften his words. Maybe his attempt at comfort got through. He didn't know. He couldn't tell. 

"Witchy witch leave?" Tog asked, making a whining sound not unlike a dog. Logg reached up to pat the back of his head while Geralt nodded, once again tearing his gaze from Jaskier. He hadn't forgotten about the trolls, but it was a near thing. Had he been anyone else they might have slipped from his mind, surprisingly quiet as they watched their guests. With a sigh Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to put it all from his mind. Everything but the small, dark rock beneath his boot. 

"I have no right to ask you for a gift and you have no reason to grant me one, but for the human's sake I will ask." 

Jaskier made a strange noise in the back of his throat. 

"Soupie no more," Logg said. 

"I don't want your food, just the chance to secure some more in the future." Geralt held up the stone and past Logg's gruesome teeth and void-like eyes, he saw a spark of kindness unencumbered by caveats. 

That was even rarer than justice. 

Logg fell into Tog with a grin. "Want? Cave rocks plenty. Witchy witch's boom make more. Take." 

"Take, take, take" Tog sang, turning the pot into a hat. 

"Thank you." 

Geralt bent and tore off a large portion of Sage's dress, leaving her knees and ankles bare. Jaskier stared, appearing dazed, before mustering up a small smile. It shook as much as his hands. "Normally that's my job." 

"You ruin all your women's clothes?" 

"When they ask me to." 

"Hmm." 

Ridiculous and predictable. But it was a quiet segue back into their normal even as Jaskier smoothed a hand over Sage's hair, as if in apology for the things he couldn't give her. Geralt spread the cloth out on the ground and held up his find. 

"Troll flesh," he said and some of the jitteriness in his limbs released as Jaskier made the exact face that Geralt knew he would. "It's only a technical term as they're made of stone, but it is, literally, them. They shed as humans do, just in much larger chunks." 

"I am begging all the gods that you never use the word 'chunks' again." 

"And it's expensive," he continued. That got the fool sitting straight. "Mages will pay a hefty sum for troll, but also any flesh that does not rot, ooze, smell, and can be easily ground into powder. Not the sort of ingredient you acquire easily and it takes skill to decipher troll from mere stone." 

Geralt held up three more, a single eyebrow encouraging Jaskier to choose. He pointed to the left piece that glittered in the firelight. 

"Wrong." 

"Well, fuck you." Jaskier said. "Fine. Point made. You get your rocks, I'll get Sage—because we _will_ be taking her home." 

He questioned whether Jaskier was able to carry a woman nearly his height and weight, but to Geralt's surprise he merely shifted to his knees, laid her gently over his shoulder, and stood with only a minor bit of wobbling. They seemed steady enough, though the trek back would be slow going. 

"Oh. Would you?" 

Geralt followed Jaskier's eyes to the notebook sitting by the fire. He dutifully slid it into the top of Jaskier's pants, refusing to dwell on the action. 

Jaskier, meanwhile, had secured Sage with hands on her ass and seemed to think nothing of it. 

Collecting the bits of troll around the cave was easy enough for him, each having a earthy scent that differed from normal stone. They were plentiful too and Geralt made sure to find a variety ranging from pebbles to specimens the size of his fist. Within minutes he had a hefty sum in his hand-made sack, if delivered to the right person. 

Jaskier had spent those minutes saying goodbye. Geralt caught instructions to continue practicing poetry and an outright order to avoid Roger from here on out. If they were so enamored with salt they should consider traveling to the coast. 

_We could head to the coast. Get away for a while. Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn't it? Life is too short, do what pleases you.._. 

For a moment the memory seared hotter than his back and Geralt leaned forward, rocking through it. He wasn't sure what pleased him anymore, though putting this tiny, mangled town behind them would be a good start. 

Farewells were perfunctory, though fitting for two of the three species present. Jaskier was the one who kept looking back, carefully lifting one hand from Sage to wave and blow kisses, as if he left friends of a decade and not two monsters he had feared would eat him. That tiny voice in the back of Geralt's mind asked what kindness he might show _him_ , a monster of many years' acquaintance. 

Truthfully, he was seeing that kindness now. Every second Jaskier remained at his side when he didn't, couldn't deserve it. 

"If you have a suggestion for Roger," Geralt said, barely a breath. "Then I would hear it." 

Already the cave grew dark again, rounding the bend and leaving the fire just a soft glow behind them. Above their heads the ceiling shown blue and the sound of water grew heavy with each step forward. 

Jaskier didn't answer, just reached out to place one hand on Geralt's shoulder. He squeezed, hardly noticeable through the armor, and what it meant Geralt couldn't begin to guess. 

They left the cave as they came.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, folks! Please check out the end notes for some additional holiday info :)

Jaskier was silent as they made their way through the cave system and Geralt cursed his inability to be satisfied with what he had. Any other day and he would have welcomed the reprieve from endless chatter, the contentment he received not always outweighing several decades of silence—novelty forever competing against habit. Or so it seemed. Now, the silence only pushed unwanted questions to the forefront of his mind.

Jaskier had claimed he was needed, that experience was more important than shutting oneself away to compose… but even a man as stubborn as he was must grow weary of sleeping outdoors, bathing infrequently, and subsiding on a monster’s stew. How could he not? Perhaps this contract, his first real taste of the Path since their reunion, would be deemed satisfactory at its conclusion, providing enough experience for several years’ worth of writing. Back to Novigrad he’d go.

Or perhaps Jaskier might have continued on, braving both hardships and company, had Geralt not opened his mouth and yelled at him for wanting a better world.

That’s all he’d done today, yell. First for the explosion, now for asking the impossible of him like Jaskier actually expected him to deliver. He hadn’t intended to recreate what had driven Jaskier from him all those months ago and each time Geralt snatched at the return of their banter, doling out apologies that Jaskier might not even recognize at such, more in an hour than he’d given in _years_ … but he couldn’t delude himself. At some point a man got sick of it all. He’d leave. The possibility seemed more likely the longer the silence reigned. Jaskier was never quiet, not unless he was steadying himself to make some change.

This, then, was where companionship got him: spinning yarns in a damp cave while the object of his thoughts simultaneously held on and felt a kingdom away. Damn the bard for this nonsense! Geralt had made it clear this morning that if he wished to leave, he should leave. What difference did it make to him?

…yet despite his best efforts, Geralt’s thoughts retraced their steps and settled around the word 'contentment.' For all the grief Jaskier brought him—in a myriad of ways—he had been right earlier today, claiming that he brought something positive to the Path. What should be _wants_ to most people and _indifferences_ to all witchers had, somehow, becomes _needs_ for Geralt. Fireside conversations. Their walk through the woods. A hand on his shoulder, even now gentle in a way it didn’t have to be. It was the closest he’d come to contentment since Kaer Morhen and though he didn’t understand it, Geralt found he was loath to give it up. He was, as he’d thought before, becoming used to Jaskier at his side and the longer he remained, the harder it would be to continue without him.

Water rushed to fill the silence and with it Geralt’s heart, kicking up fast like there was a foe nearby. Could he return to that inn, walking the Path with only Roach, soaking up scraps of polite conversation from waitresses? He didn’t know, in the same way he didn’t know whether he’d need a vial of Cat before setting out after dark. In the end, whether it proved necessary or not didn’t matter. At the start of the contract it _might_ be… and thus Geralt brewed it.

A good witcher was always prepared, otherwise he was a dead witcher. Geralt suddenly wondered what kind of death awaited him if he went back into the world without Jaskier as a resource.

“I can hear you thinking.”

Jaskier’s voice didn’t startle him—Geralt had heard the soft intake of breath before he spoke, felt him shift in preparation—but his whole body tensed as if it had. A unique statement, that. Most wondered if he was capable of thought at all.

Together they stepped back out into the early afternoon, Geralt’s eyes immediately adjusting to the light. Jaskier’s free hand flew to his face though and it was while he was distracted that Geralt admitted to the sky,

“Just wondering what we do next.”

“That’s obvious. I need a fucking break.”

Five words, one expletive, and suddenly Geralt was numb from the neck down. Only his face retained feeling, burning under the sun as he tipped it higher. That was it then. At least he knew and this was, arguably, even more than he’d dare to expect. A break lacked finality. It was temporary, poised to change. Perhaps this was how it worked best for them, coming together for a short time, one contract, one fight, before going on their way again. The devil. The djinn. The dragon. Now the trolls. Only difference was that before Geralt had been the one to encourage a separation, passing long hours with Yen until Jaskier took the hint, or simply screaming the hint in his face.

Yen. There was a word unspoken between them. He hadn’t seen her since the mountaintop, only heard rumors of a raven-haired, violet-eyed witch who sought a child. The common folk whispered this information like a curse, reading nothing but awful intentions. Only Geralt knew differently. Perhaps now he’d start listening for rumors of a bard in search of a witcher.

An unknowable future, but if his resources had changed then Geralt would simply have to change his preparations along with them. He took a deep breath, swallowing down the taste of bile. It wasn’t as if there was anything he could do. Not unless he started listening to the voices saying nonsense like, _Beg him to stay_ or, _Just let him kill Roger_ —anything that might sway Jaskier in this decision. They were all impossibilities and humiliating to boot. He might be flawed as a witcher, but Geralt hadn’t yet sunk so low that he would break his code—or beg—for a scrap of the bard’s pity.

He was just setting his teeth against this resolution when there was a sound of effort behind him. Geralt turned to find Jaskier carefully laying Sage beside the river, avoiding the remnants of their earlier mishap. Geralt stared.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier blinked, pausing in the act of finding a rock-less patch of ground to lay her head. “What does it look like I’m doing? I said I need a break, or were you too busy watching the clouds to listen to me? And they say witchers aren’t philosophers. You spend more time staring at the fire and the sky than any Oxenfurt academic and let me tell you, that’s not a compliment.”

Most of that was lost to Geralt re-teaching his lungs how to breathe. “You need a break… now?”

“Yes, Geralt, she’s heavy! Sorry all of us aren’t built like brick walls and that _one of us_ went and got his back injured. Oh, but that was my fault too, wasn’t it? Sorry, just… I need a minute. That’s all, I swear. I won’t keep us long.”

_Us_.

Jaskier had thrown himself onto the ground beside Sage, limbs sprawled as he leaned against the cave’s entrance. He was drenched in perspiration, his own lungs heaving now that Geralt bothered to listen for it. The small cloth at his neck had come undone, revealing the cut, and Jaskier’s hair was even messier than when Tog had been playing with it. An hour before Geralt had marveled at the strength Jaskier had gained through years of travel. He still did, but in the end he was human and it could only carry him so far. Jaskier was exhausted.

_Exhausted, not leaving. Not_ _yet._

“We can rest,” Geralt said, shocked at his own voice. Steady. Unworried. What a fucking lie it was compared to his heart and his lungs. It passed muster though because Jaskier nodded and tipped his head against the rocks, closing his eyes. After a moment of wondering whether it was allowed, or welcomed, Geralt acknowledged that his assumptions had been less than trustworthy lately and told them to fuck right off, all but collapsing down beside Jaskier. They were close enough now that Geralt could see the minute shivers running along his arms as his body adapted back to cool breezes. Close enough that if he were to drift just a few inches to the right, his knee would bump against Jaskier’s.

Geralt did just that.

The touch was lightning running through him, more for the deliberate intimacy of the act than anything he could feel through his armor. Jaskier’s eyes flew back open and his head whipped to the side, though he was met only with a familiar, stony expression. Geralt stared stubbornly out into the trees and continued to do so, even as a few seconds became a minute, then two. The connection was tangible though and after a few more breaths, when Geralt still hadn’t pulled away, Jaskier relaxed so that the weight of his leg met Geralt’s, the two balanced against one another.

“I’ve got nothing,” he whispered.

“Nothing?”

“No brilliant ideas, I mean. On what to do with Roger." Jaskier blew a breath at the sky, scowling. "I was trying to come up with one through that whole damp, disgusting, worm infested cave. And wouldn't you know, not a thing came to mind. I mean, isn’t that what I'm supposed to be good at? Writing endings?”

Jaskier was good at a lot of things, not the least of which was befriending monsters. What to do with them outside of that? That was Geralt’s job. He wanted to say as much—a reassurance, dispelling any responsibility the fool might feel—but what came out was just, “You write songs. Poetry.”

“With _endings_ , Geralt. Audiences expect a good conclusion. If I walk into the next tavern singing about the man who got away…” Jaskier shook his head.

“That all you care about? Your audience?”

Jaskier’s knee pressed until the weight was insistent, almost painful. “Quit playing the misanthrope. You don't suit the role as well as you think.”

Geralt didn’t answer, just reached forward to remove a leaf that had fallen against Sage’s neck.

This silence was comfortable and the adrenaline coursing through his veins finally began to die down. Around them the forest shifted, teeming with life, and the river provided a soothing backdrop that helped quiet Geralt’s mind. The only thing that ruined the image was Sage herself, laid out before them like a corpse prepared for the pyre. More leaves had started to join the one Geralt had crushed.

“Actually no, I _do_ have an idea,” Jaskier murmured. “Let’s just stay here forever, hm?”

Geralt imagined a season’s worth of leaves bearing down on them, covering all three until they were indistinguishable from the forest floor. A tempting offer. More tempting than Jaskier could understand. Which was why Geralt hauled himself to his feet, using Jaskier’s knee as leverage. It was a warm touch, the same temperature as his back. He waved Jaskier back down.

“Rest. I won’t be long.”

“You’re _leaving?_ ” Horrible, that the distress in Jaskier’s voice eased something within Geralt.

“There are no monsters nearby. None you haven’t befriended, anyway. Besides, I’ll hear if you scream.”

“Haha. Hear me cursing you in my final breath, more like.”

But Jaskier did settle, head once again leaning against the rocks, eyes closed. Despite his words he seemed to trust that if Geralt considered him safe, safe he must be. He took a moment to memorize that image—sparkling river, Jaskier in the sun, a cave the suddenly didn’t seem nearly as foreboding as it had at the start—before shaking the images away like a wolf shedding water. Geralt turned and headed deeper into the woods.

Still together, only for him to willingly separate. Again. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He did intend to be quick though and Jaskier’s safety was no illusion. Geralt had begun to suspect that Logg and Tog had done quite a bit to keep other monsters out of these woods. Next to a leshen, rock trolls were some of the most territorial species and they had both the sentience and the raw power to act on that. Jaskier would be fine.

Sage, however, was not.

Down on his knees, Geralt bent his nose into the foliage, trying to catch that familiar scent. With his satchel blown to bits her recovery depended on what this land would provide her. No merchants were coming out this way and it would take a miracle to get her to a healer in time, let alone cough up the coin for one. No, either Geralt found what he needed, or she would languish, holding on for a few more days, perhaps even a few weeks with care, before her body succumbed to a peaceful, but still tragic death. Wouldn’t that be something to put in a song? The woman who survived travel, the sins of men, and even a pair of rock trolls… only to pass because she’d been carted through a cloud of gas on her way. A thrilling tale.

Jaskier was right. He deserved to compose better endings.

_Few get what they deserve, boy._

“Shut it, old man.” Vesemir’s voice and the bits of red in the trees called to him though, reminding Geralt that winter was close on their heels and he had nowhere but Kaer Morhen to wait it out. Normally it was a reality he looked forward to, but now…

This cycle was quickly becoming tedious, but this time Geralt’s thoughts were sliced through by a welcome scent: celandine.

He found the patch just a few feet ahead. They weren’t flowering, but the leaves would do. Geralt had left his makeshift bag with Jaskier and so he oh so carefully plucked a handful, ensuring that none of them were crushed. The fresher the oil the better and they wouldn’t keep longer than a few hours outside of a potion. Still, with some planning and effort, this right here was a fighting chance.

“See, Vesemir?” he asked the woods, though in truth Geralt wasn’t sure what he wanted to show him. All he knew was that the closer he got to Jaskier, the more it felt like he was walking away from the life he was taught. No witcher kept a bard at his side, let alone worried— _Panicked_ , a voice whispered—at the thought of losing him. Although, no other witcher had undergone additional mutations, earned a princess as his child surprise, or slept with a sorceress… at least no one could claim this was abnormal for _him_. That used to eat at him. Just days ago, hours even, but if difference was the price he had to pay for not walking the Path alone… Geralt found himself inclined to accept that. So long as Jaskier would accept it too.

The fact that he gave up so much more wasn’t lost on him. Above all it was selfish. Geralt carried the cure for one life in his hands even as he hoped to tether the other to danger and hardship for however long he could.

Well, they did say witchers were a greedy breed. At least he’d gotten that part right.

***

Their journey back to town was uneventful, with the exception that Jaskier had exclaimed in wonder at the commonplace weed, hope for Sage giving him a much-needed burst of energy. It was only as he’d bent over their find, hair briefly obscuring his smile, that Geralt remembered that celandine was a member of the buttercup family.

With renewed vigor Jaskier had picked Sage up for what they hoped was the last time, bridal style, thumbs smoothing over sallow skin as he kept up a litany of reassurances. Geralt found himself looking away. The chatter and their brief respite had done wonders for his mood though, more than even a sack of coin would have managed, and they each seemed to silently decide to put the issue of Roger from their minds. At least for now.

When they returned, carefully retracing their steps, they found the settlement in full swing with a number of men and women going about their daily tasks: tending a small garden, fixing a bow string, peeling potatoes, sewing a new shirt. Too many of them were enjoying the last of the nice weather and Geralt shared a look with Jaskier, both again seeming to think the same thing at the same moment. They had supposedly left hours ago and two children were the only ones who knew that they’d stayed. It wouldn’t do to startle these people with their unexpected appearance. One witcher, one bard, and an unconscious neighbor between them—previously missing. Jaskier shook his head wildly at the image alone.

With a finger to his lips, Geralt reached into the pocket containing Lin’s coins and found the small whistle there. Molded from metal and no longer than his smallest finger, it produced a pitch too high for humans to hear, but horses (and the occasional dog) would come running. He gave it three long puffs.

“She’ll lead them right to us,” Jaskier hissed, but Geralt just pointed at the trees across the way. A commotion had started, Roach galloping hard in response to his call…

...in the completely wrong direction.

“She’s great at reacting to the whistle,” Geralt whispered. “Just not at figuring out where I am.”

“...I see. How mad will you be if I admit that I’d die for your horse?”

Furious, though not for the reason Jaskier would assume.

He waved him silent as the people stared fearfully into the forest, now knowing that a large beast lurked there, though not what kind. Most scuttled back into their homes and the remaining curious cats had their heads bent together, paying the cottage at the end of the row no mind.

Geralt stole a glance to ensure that Jaskier still had ahold of Sage and then led them forward. He rapped quickly on the door. 

Laren answered almost immediately.

Close up Geralt could see that she was older than she appeared from afar, with gray streaking her hair and frown lines along her forehead. Light coloring, brown eyes, and the pinched expression of someone who didn’t get enough food. She was indistinguishable from any other peasant, with the exception that Laren’s mouth was poised to scream.

Geralt slammed his hand over her lips, thankful for his gloves, before corralling her back into the house with Jaskier at his heels. He heard the door closing and only then did he speak.

“Quiet.” Laren didn’t seem inclined to listen, twisting in his grip like a pissed off eel. If she kept this up, she’d sooner hurt herself before Geralt, so he settled on a different command: “ _Look_.”

She did, though only after Geralt wrenched her around to face Jaskier. He felt the exact moment she spotted—and recognized—Sage. The fight bled out of her and Geralt was left holding a deadweight.

“By the Gods…”

He carefully lowered Laren to her knees as they gave out. Jaskier mirrored him with Sage, unable to hide a done-in breath. When both women were on the floor Laren reached, closing the distance between them.

The moment their hands touched Laren burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, Witcher fans. If you’ve ever been on my tumblr you may know that I have a particular fondness for organizing Secret Santa exchanges. Every year I run the Jupiter Ascending exchange as well as the Ozqrow (Qrow/Ozpin from RWBY) exchange, with a few others occasionally sprinkled in. This year, after missing the sign ups for the one Witcher exchange I know about, I decided it couldn’t hurt to run another one closer to the holidays!
> 
> I realize that 2020 is an absolute garbage year and a lot of people don’t have the time or mental energy to create a gift right now, but if you do find solace in creative projects please consider signing up! Even if you have no intention of joining us, please consider reblogging/reposting the info (linked below) to spread the word a bit. Tumblr’s tagging/algorithm is absolute garbage for circulating new content, so any help in getting the word out is much appreciated. 
> 
> Sign ups start tomorrow (November 1st) and run through the 10th. Hope to see some of you there!
> 
> https://witchersecretsantaexchange.tumblr.com/post/633063105339047936/what-is-this-a-secret-santa-for-the-entire


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